


Domestic Intimacy

by Queen_OfThe_Universe



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, collection of shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 56,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22865869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_OfThe_Universe/pseuds/Queen_OfThe_Universe
Summary: A collection of shorts set between the numbers. Harold and John don't always have downtime, but when they do, this is what happens. Romance, fluff, hurt/comfort. Rated PG13. Ace romantic pairing: John/Harold, with some Carl/Anthony.
Relationships: Carl Elias/Anthony Marconi, Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 171
Kudos: 80





	1. Domestic Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Domestic Intimacy is a collection of 38 shorts technically set after my story, "Mr. & Mr. Rinch", but for the most part, each of these can be read as a standalone. (Some of these, including this first one, do reference MMR.) Set late season three through season five, some of these will be set after specific episodes, but most will not. The important thing to know, is that Harold identifies as bi-romantic asexual and John identifies as bi-romantic demi-asexual. Occasionally other characters will pop in, such as Carl and Anthony, but this is mostly about John and Harold. This was originally written for NaNoWriMo 2018, and originally posted on ff.net over the course of 2019.
> 
> This first story is set after my story "Mr. & Mr. Rinch." Just after confessing their tentative feelings for each other, Harold has gotten a concussed John back home and must leave him to run an errand.

* * *

_"Intimacy is defined as being able to feel vulnerable with someone while still feeling safe."_ \- Unknown

* * *

"Harold?" John called out from his bed in a sleepy voice, as Harold approached the front door to his apartment. "Where are you going?"

Harold smiled to himself. In about a minute, John would be dead to the world, getting the sleep he needed. 

"I'm just going to pick up Bear from Detective Fusco. I won't be long."

"But you're coming back here, right?"

"Of course."

"Goo-" John's voice slurred, then stopped. He was sound asleep, his head buried in his pillow. 

Harold slipped out the door, making sure to lock it behind him. 

* * *

When Harold returned, Bear was straining at the leash, having been apart from John for too long while they'd been at a couple's retreat with their previous number. Harold guided the dog to his bed by the couch and ordered him to lay down. Bear did as he was told, but whimpered his discontent, and stared in the direction of John's bed. 

Harold sat on the couch and began taking his shoes off. He should have stopped at his apartment for some fresh clothes, but he could use John's washing machine to wash what he had from his suitcase. It would have to do. Maybe he would do a load of wash while John was sound asleep. 

"You coming to bed?" John mumbled. 

Oh. "You're still awake?"

"Heard you come in. What are you doing?" John still sounded sleepy. 

"I was going to do a load of laundry."

"You don't need to wash your pajamas. Come to bed."

Harold pursed his lips. "It's almost dinner time. I thought I would also start dinner soon."

"Fridge is empty. We'll order out. Come to bed." 

Harold sighed, dug around in his suitcase for his pajamas, and moved across the room to sit on the edge of the bed, opposite John, where he noticed John's copy of _The Crystal Cave_ by Mary Stewart had taken pride of place on his nightstand over _Guns and Ammo_ magazine. 

Bear whined from his bed across the room.

"How's your concussion?" Harold asked as he began undressing.

John turned over to smile at him. "Better, now that you're here."

It was easy, rolling into John's arms, their legs tangling, his head resting on John's chest. 

There was a yip from Bear, and Harold looked up to see the dog barreling toward them, giving a play bow, and placing his front paws up on the bed to get at John. His tail was wagging nonstop. 

"Bear, no," Harold said as sternly as he could.

Bear left the bed and ran around the apartment, sniffing for something until he came back with his beloved tennis ball.

John's eyes were closing again, the sleeping pills he'd taken earlier working hard to claim him again. 

Harold instructed Bear to drop the tennis ball and go back to bed. The last thing John needed was Bear keeping him awake. 

Bear whined, trying to sound as sad as possible. 

"You too, Bear," John mumbled. "Come to bed." 

Without seeking Harold's permission, the dog jumped up on the bed, circled a spot for a few seconds, then plopped himself down right next to John on his other side, resting his head on John's hip. 

"Well, this is awkward," Harold commented. 

"You like it," John said. 

"I'm not admitting anything. I just want to make sure your concussion heals properly."

"That's not the only reason why you're here, Harold, and we both know it."

Harold smiled. "You're right, of course."


	2. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has invited Harold over for dinner for the first time, and Harold is not prepared for the awkwardness of a first date. This references my story "Mr. & Mr. Rinch".

Harold's hands were shaking so hard the dishes rattled on the tray he carried. It didn't help that Bear was running around him in circles, begging for someone to feed him. This was the most date-like thing Harold had done in years and all he could think about were the million ways this could go terribly wrong. His vision blurred and his knees began to buckle under him. The tray began to slip from his sweaty palms. Then a steadying hand braced his lower back and another held up the tray. 

"I've got you. Are you all right?" John's soothing voice and steady hands brought Harold back to the present. 

He blinked his blurry vision away and didn't move until he was sure his legs could hold him up. 

"Sorry, I'm just... I think I'm a little nervous." Which, once Harold paused to think about it, didn't begin to cover how he was feeling. His heart was pounding and the blood was rushing in his ears. 

John took the tray from him and set it on the nearby table before turning back to Harold, and grasping his hands. "I'm glad I'm not the only one." John's smile was crooked. "Come. Why don't you sit down. We worked hard on this homemade spaghetti sauce and the garlic bread and the salad. Maybe once we eat, it won't be so awkward. Right?"

"Right. That's a good idea. I think I'm hungry and it does smell good."

John chuckled and put out Bear's food, before he finished setting the dishes and the utensils on the table.

"What are we doing?" Harold asked when John had sat down opposite him. 

John's expression was quizzical. "I invited you to dinner after a long day at work. I think this is considered our first date. But correct me if I'm wrong."

"It's just... I knew what to do with Grace. I romanced her like you wouldn't believe. But this? Us? I don't know what to do."

"You certainly don't need to romance me. I just want to be with you. You're good company."

Harold blushed and was grateful when John's attention turned to dishing out the pasta. 

* * *

The dinner turned out to be delicious and Harold was already wondering when they could do this again when John cleared his throat and stared down at the table as he dug something from his pocket. 

"I found these where you'd hidden them at the library the other day," he said, his voice extra soft.

He placed two wedding rings on the table between them. 

Harold's heart seized up, and he stopped breathing for a moment. 

"John..."

What was he thinking? How had he even found them in the first place? Harold had tried to make sure no one knew where they were. The last thing he wanted was for Ms. Groves to find them. Or anyone else for that matter. The fact that John had... he wasn't sure he minded, actually. 

"Hear me out, Harold. These are still very useful. We wore these at the couple's retreat for a reason, right? No one else would think to check a wedding ring for a GPS device and it would make me feel better if I knew you had this on you."

"If this is considered our first real date, don't you think it's a little too soon for this conversation?"

"We pretended to be married, Harold, and we've slept together. I think the fact that this is our first real date, doesn't matter any more."

"Oh. Maybe you're right."

"Will you at least consider it? I found two discrete necklace chains to go with them if you'd rather they stay hidden under a shirt."

Harold wasn't sure why he was balking at the idea of wearing a matching wedding band again. All of John's points had been good ones. He just... He'd taught The Machine not to take care of him, that it should look after everyone else, and then along came John who had to go and undo all of his hard work. 

"I've been in some scary as shit situations, Harold. But that time Root kidnapped you, that was the scariest. I don't want to have to go through that again, but I'm not going to pressure you into this, if you really don't want to do it."

"Okay. Let's do it."

"That's it? You're sure?"

Harold took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sure."

John disappeared into a nearby closet and returned with the two necklace chains. He looped a ring through one of them and carefully hooked it around Harold's neck. 

"How is it?" John asked. 

Harold had to stop and think about it a moment, feeling the weight of the ring against his chest. "It... It'll take some getting used to, I think."

This was too nerve wracking. Harold's fingers were trembling as he picked up the other chain and prepared to loop it around John's neck. 

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" John asked as Harold fixed the clasp. "Because it's okay if you're not."

John turned around to face Harold, and wrapped him in his arms. Harold rested his forehead against John's shoulder. 

"This is all so... it's a lot to take in. What we did before, that wasn't real. I mean, it didn't diminish my feelings for you, of course, but I got through that couple's retreat knowing we were only pretending. Now... now it's coming home to me that this is real and I can't believe it's true, and I want it to be true, but it's frightening at the same time it's exhilarating, and, I just don't know what I should be doing, or..."

John lifted Harold's chin with a finger, stopping his word flow, and Harold was surprised to see a smile on John's face as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Harold's lips. 

"Yeah, me too."

* * *

Once they'd cleared off the table, washed and dried the dishes, and put them away, they ended up on the couch together, each taking turns throwing Bear's newest favorite ball for him to chase. When Bear got tired and lay down at their feet, they continued to talk about the recent numbers they'd been getting until it was the end of the night, and Harold rose to go home. 

"I would like more breakfasts out with you," John suggested. "Maybe tomorrow morning?" His eyes said he would miss Harold in the between time. 

"What about breakfasts in?" Harold asked.

"I would be okay with that, if you'd stay the night."

Harold smiled. "Maybe next time." 

"So there will be a next time then?"

"Yes. I think so."

John leaned in and pressed his lips to Harold's for one blissful moment. 

"So, our usual place tomorrow at seven?"

He kissed Harold again.

"I'll be there."

This time it was Harold's turn to lean in and kiss him. 

"I'll look forward to it."

Harold clipped Bear's leash to his collar as John smiled and dutifully walked Harold out to his car. Bear jumped into the backseat as soon as the door was opened for him, very excited to be going for a car ride so soon after the last one.

"Can I give you one more kiss before you go at least?" John asked, as if they hadn't spent the last five minutes doing just that.

"I would like that very much."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Harold leaned in and pecked John on the tip of his nose. "How was that?"

John shook his head. "I'm not sure what that was. I think I need a do-over."

"I'm not sure we do do-overs here, Mr. Reese." 

"We don't?"

"No." Harold leaned in again and placed a light kiss to his cheek. "Was that better?"

"Come here." John pulled him in close and gave him a gentle, lingering kiss, that went on until Harold had to pull away to catch his breath. "Until tomorrow," John said, opening Harold's car door for him.

"Until tomorrow," Harold agreed. 

He got into his car and John shut the door for him. Harold's brain was still fuzzy from the kiss, and over all, he was still a bit surprised at the sharp turn their relationship had taken. Not that he was complaining. Not one bit. But he hadn't seen it coming. That was all. John waited for him to back out of his parking space before waving goodbye and heading back into his apartment building.

Harold drove home with a tired Belgian Malinois in the back seat and a smile plastered all over his face.


	3. Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Popcorn wars ensue as John forces Harold to get out and enjoy the night.

_Casablanca_ had been John's idea. He needed to get Harold out of the library and doing something different from their usual dinner at his place. Too much work to do, Harold had said. No time for a movie. Or dinner, for that matter. Harold's eyes had been glazing over and John had been going stir crazy, cooped up in the library with no where else to go until Harold solved some of his computer problems. He could have gone home, sure, but he wasn't about to leave Harold when he had a sneaky feeling he would spend the entire night at the library. Harold had been planning on something microwavable later in the night when John took his arm and dragged him away from his computer.   


So dinner and a movie it was. John chose the closest revival theater to the library so they wouldn't have far to walk, and from there the closest restaurant they could both agree on, not that that would have been difficult anyway. And then it was just a debate between _Casablanca_ with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman or _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ with Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland.

Harold had been dead set against another date night getting in the way of his work, right up until he'd tasted the first bite of his steak. John was sure he'd heard a low moan from him and Harold had been quiet after that. 

"Real homemade popcorn is better," Harold complained when they sat down in the back row of the theater with John holding the large tub on his lap. 

"So, next time you're over, we'll choose a movie and make our own popcorn," John suggested. 

"John, we're not in a business that gives us a lot of free time."

"So we'll carve some out. There has to be some down time. Otherwise you'll forget how to socialize with other humans."

"I either forgot that when I was a kid, or I just never learned it to begin with."

"You've been doing fine since I met you."

Harold gave a quiet snort. "That's because you're easy on the eyes."

The lights dimmed then, with only five other people in the theater, thankfully sitting far away from them. John smiled into the darkness, and placed an arm around Harold's shoulders. 

Harold dipped his hand into the popcorn bucket, and John dipped his in a second later, letting their hands bump together. 

"John!" Harold hissed, bumping John's hand back, as if they were starting a shoving match between friends.

"What?" John asked. "Isn't it a requirement to bump hands in the popcorn bucket on a date?" He was grinning as Harold pointedly popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth and turned back to face the screen.

Part way through the movie, John realized he'd stopped paying attention to the actors. Harold's head was resting on his shoulder and he seemed somewhat more relaxed than he had when they'd first arrived. 

"Are you comfortable?" John whispered. 

"Sort of," Harold whispered back. But he only wriggled around to cement himself further on John's shoulder. 

Awhile later, John realized he was feeling more comfortable and relaxed himself. He rested his head on Harold's, gave his arm a squeeze, and began paying attention to the movie at last. 


	4. Out of Commission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our intrepid hero needs a day off, but the numbers never stop coming so he heads into work anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a writing prompt about a clingy assassin with the flu, which sounded adorable, and very much like John if John could allow himself to let go.

"Morning, Finch," John said with a croak.  


Harold looked up from his keyboard, sensing something was off as Shaw said, "Oh my God, why are you here, Reese?"

Bear ran up to John, sniffed him for a second, then whimpered and went back to his bed. 

John had a box of tissues under one arm and was dotting his nose with one of them. His face was flushed and when he glanced up at Harold, he paused, contorted his facial expression, then started to hack up his lungs. It wasn't until he'd calmed down a full minute or two later that Harold noticed John had misbuttoned his shirt. John sneezed.

Shaw's eyes were wide and staring, as if she were watching a train wreck before her eyes, but she didn't move any closer to him. 

Harold was out of his seat and standing in front of John in seconds. Up close he could see that John's eyes were watery before he pulled a second tissue out of the box and dabbed at them. Harold placed the back of his hand to John's forehead. 

"Your temperature must be through the roof, John. You could have called in."

"The numbers don't wait. Isn't that what you've always said?" He sounded like he had a plug up his nose.

"Yes, but those numbers don't want to be catching your cold, or the flu, and I don't want you collapsing on the job."

"Or dying," Shaw commented. "Lord knows, I'm not digging your grave buddy."

"But I could stay here, in the library, and help. Couldn't I?" John sounded plaintive as he spoke. 

"No. I don't want whatever it is you've got either." Shaw backed away.

John sniffed and dabbed at his nose again. "Harold..." 

Harold could have sworn his name had come out with a bit of a whine to it. He sighed and went back to his desk to pack up his laptop and his phone.

"Ms. Shaw, the number is all yours. If you need me, you know how to reach me."

"Wait, you're not going with him, are you?"

"How did you get here, Mr. Reese?"

"I, uh, I took the train... thingy."

"Right. I'm going to take you home. Immediately."

"You do that," Shaw said, ushering the two of them out. "I'll keep an eye on Bear."

"Thank you, Ms. Shaw," Harold called back to her as she shut the door after them. 

In the car, John was quick to apologize. "I'm sorry, Harold. I made a stupid mistake again and you're fixing it for me."

"Stop that, John. I want to do this for you." Harold pulled out into traffic. "Have you been grocery shopping since we last had dinner together?"

John thought about it for a minute. "I don't think so."

"Then I'm stopping at the health food store to get some of their chicken soup. You could use some."

"Can you get egg noodles to go with it? They never put noodles in it and you can't have chicken soup without the noodles."

Harold shook his head as he maneuvered the car into the right lane. "You sound like you're forty-five going on five, John. But yes, I will buy the noodles too."

John gave a feeble smile. "Thank you."

* * *

Harold sent John back to bed the minute they walked in the door of his apartment. He'd bought a thermometer while they were out shopping and he made John place it under his tongue while he unpacked the groceries. 

Harold was grateful he could afford to buy homemade soup, ready to go, even though it was a bit pricey. He wondered what poor college students did when they got sick and couldn't afford good soup. He didn't remember what he'd done as a poor college student. Because he had been poor at the time. He'd blocked out so many memories... 

John called him over when the thermometer was done and Harold glanced down at it. 

"You definitely have a fever, Mr. Reese." He handed him a hot mug. "Here, have some tea, this should help a little bit."

"But I'm so cold." 

"Then put an extra blanket around your shoulders. I know you have one around here somewhere."

Harold moved to the couch, found the blanket, and carefully draped it over John's shoulders.

"Is that better?"

"A little."

"Good. Drink your tea. Then get some rest. I'm going to be getting some work done with this latest number for Ms. Shaw at the table. Let me know if you need anything."

"Can you stay?"

"No. I have work to do."

"But I'm still cold."

"Drink your tea." 

John pouted, but Harold was resolute. There was work to be done. As John had said, the numbers wouldn't wait, and Ms. Shaw could probably use the backup.

He dialed her number and murmured into the phone so as not to disturb John. 

"The big guy doing all right?" she asked. 

"He'll be fine. Eventually. But I've dug up more information about the number you're going to want to hear."

"Hit me with it, Harold."

* * *

The next time Harold looked up to check on John, John had curled up under the covers, and while his eyes were closed, he was shivering. It was lunch time anyway. Time to get some soup into him. 

He brought the soup to John, set it on his nightstand and gently placed a hand on his shoulder to wake him up. John jolted up, breathing hard, and looking everywhere for a threat. 

Harold took a fast step backward to avoid any flying fists. 

"What..."

"It's okay, John. It's just me. I brought you lunch."

"Oh..." John took a deep breath. "Thanks."

John got his breathing under control and reached for the bowl. Harold helped him hold it up while he ate. 

"I could have come to the table, you know," John said when he was done.

"I think it's better that you stay in bed for now."

Harold washed out the bowl and found a book he'd left on John's coffee table. Shaw would call him if she needed anything. In the meantime, he figured he'd take the afternoon off and do a little light reading. 

John came over, trailing the extra blanket and a small garbage can behind him and sat on the couch beside Harold, curling himself up in his blanket again. He rested his head on Harold's shoulder and a box of tissues appeared on his lap.

"Oh, I started reading that the other day," John said, pointing toward the book. "It's pretty good."

"You're not feeling better already, are you?"

"No." And to emphasize his answer, John sneezed several times in succession.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Reese," Harold began. "The only reason I'm letting you near me in your current condition is because it's you. Anyone else and I'd be moving away very quickly."

"Why thank you."

"Now, what are you doing over here out of bed?"

"I want your company."

Harold sighed and held up the copy of Jules Verne's _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_. "How far did you get?" he asked. 

"Through chapter four."

"I'll start there then, shall I?"

"Yes please." 

Harold flipped to the correct chapter and began to read out loud, then he paused as a giant shiver ran through John's body. 

"Hold on." He handed the book to John, and got up to pull the comforter off the bed. He covered them both with it, hoping his own body heat would help John keep warm, even as his fever raged on. 

"You'll get through this," he said. 

"With you here, I don't doubt it," John commented with a watery smile. "Thanks, Harold. You're the best."

Harold picked up the book and began reading again. 


	5. Acting Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The numbers might not wait, but John lets the boss call out for the day.

Already up and in the kitchen, John was getting breakfast ready while Harold was finishing up in the shower. He paused a moment after sliding eggs from the frying pan onto a plate, to enjoy feeling human again. Granted, he still had a bit of a cough, and his nose was still stuffed up, but his head was clear, his fever was gone, and at least he didn't need to stuff his nose full of tissues to keep it from dripping down his face. 

He was ready to get back to work. And he suspected that Harold was too, though Harold had easily worked at his laptop from John's kitchen table for the past few days. 

This morning, John had gotten up a little earlier than usual and let Harold sleep in awhile. Harold deserved a little pampering after he'd spent a good portion of the week taking care of John in all of his needy glory. Now that he was clear headed again, he found himself rather embarrassed over some of the things he'd been whining about. Whining. Of all things. Him. A grown man. It was utterly despicable. And Harold was a saint for putting up with him. 

Out of the shower and fully dressed, John had leaned over Harold's sleeping form and gently woke him with a hand on his shoulder and a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Harold had slowly stretched and blinked up at him, the sight enough to melt John's heart. 

"Morning," he'd whispered. 

"Mmm. Morning." Harold pushed up to share a lingering kiss, before letting himself fall back onto his pillow. 

"I'll get breakfast ready while you shower, if you like?"

"You must be feeling better."

"I am."

"Finally."

John grinned. "Go shower. Eggs okay?"

"Eggs would be lovely. Thank you."

Now the toaster was dinging and he was slathering butter on Harold's toast when he heard his name being called, a note of distress to the syllable. He poked his head out of the kitchen to see Harold standing beside the bed with a very lost expression on his reddened face. 

John was quick to put down the toast and rush to Harold's side. 

"Are you okay? Your face is flushed."

"I just took a hot shower, that's all. Maybe... some water might be good?"

"Sit down. What happened?"

"Just felt a little dizzy, is all." 

John guided Harold back to the bed. He left, and came back moments later with a tall glass of water. Harold gulped it down. 

"Feeling better?"

Harold shook his head. "Oh, my brain feels loose in my skull. That hurts."

John placed the back of his hand against Harold's forehead. Harold turned away just in time to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. 

"That's it. Back to bed with you."

"No, I can't. The numbers..."

"I'll let you call in sick, boss," John said with a smirk.

He bent down on one knee to help Harold take off the shoes he'd just put on. "You get your pajamas back on and I'll get you breakfast in bed. Your eggs were already on a plate. They should still be warm. I'll be right back."

Heading back into the kitchen, John pulled out his cell phone and called Shaw. 

"What?" she greeted. 

"It's me, John."

"You still alive?"

"Sorry to disappoint."

She sighed. "The job was always better with two anyway. What do you want?"

"I'll be taking over Harold's duties for awhile."

Shaw snorted. "Right. Like you could hack into the Pentagon. You got him sick, didn't you?"

"He likely did get it from me, yes," he reluctantly agreed. "Is our latest number that important?"

John reached for a pen and a pad of notepaper just in case she had important information for him.

"Uh, no. Our latest number was actually a little old grandmother who's grandson brought trouble home. I was joking about the Pentagon. But you still couldn't hack into it if you tried."

"I've got Harold with me."

"If he's sick though...?"

John heard Harold shuffling toward him in his socks. 

"Look, I've gotta go. Call me if you need something. I'll do the best I can."

"Thanks. I think."

John hung up and turned to see Harold standing in the doorway to the kitchen, swaying on his feet.

"I thought I told you to go back to bed?"

At least he'd put his pajamas back on. 

"Ms. Shaw needs you to hack the Pentagon. You'll need my help."

Now it was John's turn to snort. "No, Harold, we're not hacking the Pentagon. Come on. Let's get you back into bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from S03E21 "Beta", when Shaw asks John "Who died and made you Finch?"


	6. The Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one particular park holds significance for John.

March, 2012

The weather was of no real consequence now that John had a roof over his head, thanks to the man sitting on the bench beside him overlooking the Hudson. Even so, he enjoyed not having to slog through the snow and ice to rescue someone. The trees and flowers had started to bloom early along the river, and John relaxed for a moment, letting the warmth soak into his bones. But only for a moment.

He rose to go. Their number was safe and everything was right with the world, at least for a few seconds anyway. As he took a step to leave, Finch's arm shot out and touched his, holding him there, captive. 

"Stay. Please."

John turned back to face Finch who was looking up at him with his neck crooked at an odd angle.

"Don't rush off," Finch continued. "Enjoy this bit of respite with me for awhile. It's such a rare thing, especially with this good weather."

And so, John had sat back down beside Finch, and enjoyed the warm weather. Not that it had been a hardship. He'd found over the months they'd been working together that he quite liked Finch's company. 

Finch was unlike anyone John had ever met: Level headed. Honorable. With a moral compass pointed strongly in the right direction. John felt a growing attachment to him that he was unable to explain. There was something about Finch that kept John going, kept him from returning to the George Washington Bridge. He knew it wasn't just the job, though that certainly helped. No, it was Harold Finch, himself. 

April, 2014  


The park held special significance for John. It was where he'd first met Harold Finch. It was where Harold had given him the address of his condo, the most expensive birthday gift he'd ever received. And it was the place where Harold had asked him to stay once, just to enjoy the first of the warm weather that year and the short reprieve from the numbers. 

Now, they sat together on the same worn bench, enjoying each other's company, even though the warmth had yet to kick in. 

"Why are we here?" John asked. 

"Because I wanted to give you something."

"And you couldn't do that in the library? Or even at my apartment?"

Harold gave him a small smile. "This is something I didn't want Ms. Shaw or Ms. Groves to know about. Or anyone else. And this place has... significance..."

"I know." John was surprised when his voice came out a whisper.

Harold took a small black box from the inner breast pocket of his coat and held it out to John. "This time I remembered to include all the important bits."

"You mean unlike the time you gave me a key without an address to go with it?"

"Precisely." Harold didn't look at him as he took the box. 

Was he remembering how he'd tried to distract John from the number they'd gotten that day, and how it had backfired on him? John had long since forgiven Harold, but it was still a bit of a sore spot between them.

John opened the box, and found another key nestled inside. Underneath it, was a card with an address written on it in Harold's neat, exact handwriting. 

"Do you think it's not safe for me to stay where I am? I never thought I'd say this, but I rather like the apartment you gave me before."

"I think it's safe for you to keep your current place, yes." Harold continued to watch the river as he spoke. "But... if you ever do need another place or... you just, want to come over for dinner maybe..."

"Harold."

Harold turned to face him then and John placed a hand on his smooth cheek, leaned in, and laid a gentle kiss to Harold's lips. "Thank you." He squeezed the key in his hand, feeling the metal edges digging into his palm. 

"You're welcome," Harold said with a smile. 

Turning back to face the river, John slid his free hand down Harold's arm, to hold his deep inside his woolen pocket. It might have been cold out, but John was the warmest he'd ever been. 


	7. Hectic Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It might be early in the morning, before breakfast even, but the numbers never do stop coming.

"John?!" Steam fogged Harold's glasses as he poked his head into the bathroom. "We've got a new number, and it's urgent!"  


"Give me two seconds!"

Harold had already started a pot of coffee to brew for John and was halfway through his own Sencha green tea. The eggs were going to burn if he didn't get back to them. Wiping his glasses with his loose shirt sleeve, he hurried to get the eggs off the stove and onto plates, refusing to see the food go to waste. 

Bear, staying comfortable in his bed in the corner of the kitchen, whined as he looked from the eggs to his empty food bowl and watched them disappear onto the kitchen table instead.

John came out of the bathroom buttoning up his shirt as Harold was adding toast to the plates and setting out the butter and utensils. 

"Shouldn't we be skipping this right now, Harold?"

"I don't want you going to work on an empty stomach. Eat. Bear, here's yours." Harold dumped dry kibble into the empty bowl and set it on the floor. Bear scrambled over and began to chow down. 

"Tell me about the number. Do you know anything yet?" John asked, as they sat down and devoured their breakfast in record time.

"I sent Fusco to watch her until you get there. She's a teacher. She's been looking into the background of one of her students. I think his parents are selling drugs, from what I've gathered so far. I hacked into her electronic to-do list and she has written down for today 'confront Eric's parents about his safety.'"

"Oh, that's not going to go well."

"No, I can't imagine it would."

When they were both done eating, John said, "Leave the dishes. I'll get them when we get back."

Harold paused at that, his heart warming. John had made himself quite at home in Harold's stately condo. And yet, he still felt a small twinge of regret, that he shouldn't have let anyone else in. This was his personal space after all. Except now it wasn't his alone anymore. 

"We should get going."

Both dashed in opposite directions, nearly colliding with each other as Bear danced under their feet, excited to start another adventure. 

Harold emerged from his office with his laptop bag moments later. 

"What on earth are you taking with you?" he asked when John returned from the spare bedroom, an awkwardly shaped black duffle bag in hand.

"Just a few things I might need."

"Right."

Harold's once empty spare closet now housed a small arsenal of weapons he wanted to know nothing about.

Harold reached out and straightened the collar on John's shirt. "Be safe out there, today." 

John leaned down and gave him a kiss. "I promise." He handed over Bear's leash, picked up his helmet, and together they left the condo, John on his motorcycle and Harold in his town car with Bear riding shot gun.


	8. Rough Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes care of Harold after a tough week.

John placed his motorcycle helmet on the shelf under the antique half-moon table in the front hallway of Harold's condo. Bear, as soon as Harold had unclipped his leash, made a beeline for his bed, where he promptly circled, and fell into a tired heap. 

With the door closed and locked, the two men stared at each other for a long moment. John noted the fresh lines on Harold's face, the exhaustion in his eyes, and the tenseness in the set of his shoulders. His own energy had been almost entirely depleted over the course of the week. His eyelids slid closed, helping him gather the strength he would need to change clothes and get dinner ready. It was dinner time, wasn't it? Or maybe it was lunchtime? 

Feeling tentative fingers on his rough cheek, he opened his eyes to find that Harold had taken a step toward him and was watching him, his own eyes having gone soft. John added showering and shaving to his list of things that needed to be taken care of before they fell into bed. When was the last time either of them had showered anyway? 

Harold's smile was feeble with exhaustion as John slid his hands around the back of his head and up into his hair. Harold placed his on John's chest and left them there, as if feeling for his heartbeat. John pressed their foreheads together, doing nothing else but breathing in the scent of Harold and his condo, which was beginning to smell familiar, like home. 

He probably had a carton of milk in his own fridge that needed to be tossed. But he was too tired to think more about it. He shifted to unbutton Harold's coat, slip it off his shoulders, and hang it on the hook by his head. He let his hands stroke down Harold's spine to rest at his lower back. He could feel the tension in Harold's muscles as Harold slowly undid the buttons on his coat and helped him out of it. 

"Dinner and a movie?" John suggested. 

Harold shook his head. "Neither. Right now."

"All right."

John took his hand and lead him into the bedroom where he proceeded to slide Harold's suit jacket from his shoulders and unbutton his vest. When Harold tried to brush his hands away in an attempt to undress himself, John took his hands in his and said, "let me."

Harold didn't say anything as John continued to help him out of his clothes. He had Harold sit on the edge of the bed as he untied his dress shoes and pulled them off. Once Harold was completely nude, John urged him to lay down on his stomach. Harold complied, not even asking what he had in mind, putting his full trust in him. 

John rolled his sleeves up and reached for the massage oil he'd thought to purchase just the week before. Harold was always too busy taking care of others to care for himself. But John wouldn't deride him for it. Instead, he would take care of Harold. It was just another part of his job, but something he wanted to do for Harold, who didn't need to know about the hours he'd spent watching videos and learning how to properly massage a fused spine. 

As John worked over him, it wasn't long before Harold's grunts and groans turned to sighs of contentment. When Harold was sufficiently relaxed, he turned over onto his back and stared up at John, their eyes locked. 

"You're still dressed."

John gave him a small smile. "Was about to work on that."

"Good and thank you."

John bent to give him a gentle kiss. "You're welcome."

In bed, Harold rolled into John's open arms and they held each other close against the evils of the world. Maybe tomorrow's number would be easier to rescue. Maybe the one number wouldn't turn into twenty-six. Maybe... 

But it didn't matter. All that mattered was right there in that moment. He and Harold were still alive, and they would be ready to fight another day when that day came. 

In the darkness, John heard Bear's nails click on the hardwood floor as he came into the bedroom. There was a pause, then the bed gently shook as Bear leaped onto it and curled up at their feet, ready to protect them while they slept.


	9. Art Museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John might not be into Art himself, but he wants to make Harold happy. There is a reference to an Italian painter here. If you get a chance, look up his self-portrait. It's pretty cool, I think.

"Where are we going?" Harold asked, as John steered the town car around a double parked taxi.   


"Now, if I told you that, it would ruin the surprise."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Harold give a little smile. He couldn't help but grin himself. Harold was going to love this. He hoped. Having a day off from the numbers was rare, but it was good to get out of the library and out of the apartment, no matter whose apartment they'd been spending time in, or even if they'd been alone. 

He pulled into the museum parking lot, and watched as Harold's face lit up. 

"Oh, I haven't... I haven't been here in so long!"

John's grin widened. Yes, this had been the right choice. There were only so many times they could go to the movies after all. 

John made sure to jump ahead in line to pay for both tickets, not that it really mattered. It was the principal of the thing.

And from then on, it was all John could do to keep up with Harold as they toured the exhibit halls, Harold taking on the docent role for John, explaining the history of the paintings they passed as well as factoids about the artists. 

John wasn't into art himself and mostly let the facts roll over him. Harold didn't seem to notice John wasn't paying the art much attention. He enjoyed watching Harold having fun, the way his eyes lit up and the way he became animated, his arms waving in the air as he explained everything he could. 

Eventually Harold had tired himself out, but was still too happy to reenter the real world. John took his hand then, and quietly walked with him through the remaining exhibits, enjoying the glow that emanated from him. 

Occasionally John would stop by a painting that had caught his eye, and because he knew it made Harold happy, he would say, "Harold, tell me about this one." 

"Oh, that's a self-portrait by Gian Paolo Lomazzo!" and Harold would tell him everything he knew about the Italian painter, turned writer. 

* * *

As they fell asleep later that night, Harold wrapped up in John's arms and already sleeping soundly, John told himself they would have to do that again. It had been good for Harold, and it had been good for himself too. A weight had lifted from his shoulders, if only for the afternoon, and it had lifted his heart to see Harold smiling for the first time in a long while. He snuggled in closer to Harold and sighed a contented sigh. 

Tomorrow was sure to be a crazy day at the office. 


	10. Flea Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold and John head to a flea market for some collectibles.

John remembered Harold telling him about the things he collected: 180 gram vinyl, rare books, and xerox altos. He'd had to look up the last one. Apparently it was an early prototype computer or something. He wondered if they would find any of these things at the flea market Harold had dragged him to. 

He also wondered if he would find anyone he could talk weapons shop to, maybe even purchase a few things. Or maybe cars or motorcycles. 

Harold made a beeline for the computer section, and began pouring over bins of computer parts John knew almost nothing about: capacitors, resistors, and even some harder to find items like ancient radio equipment that must have dated back to World War I. While John was good with computers and technology, he would never be on Harold's level. So it was no surprise when Harold pulled a tote bag from his jacket pocket and began filling it with random items. When it began to drag on the ground, John gently took it from him and held it open so he could add more items to it. 

That was when he saw the booth on the other side of the market when the right people shifted. He saw tables upon tables littered with what looked like alternators, vintage speed shifters, and other car parts both old and new. His legs itched to walk over there. Maybe in his spare time he could put together the sports car of his dreams. 

Right. What spare time? The numbers didn't stop coming. Though they had gotten a reprieve that afternoon, which was why he was holding a second tote bag for Harold and following along like the dutiful husband he probably was, even without the official marriage licence. Not that he was complaining. He would do anything for Harold after all, even carry his bags for him.

"I'm going to be busy putting all of this together this week," Harold said, once he'd paid for the items. No Xerox Altos this time, it seemed. "Did you want to look at anything while we're here? You could find something to occupy yourself in what little downtime we have. The car section is over that way."

Trust Harold to know what was on John's mind. 

"Here, let me carry those." Harold reached for the bags John had slung over his shoulder. 

"Don't worry, Harold, I've got them."

Halfway toward the car section, Harold spied a booth featuring vinyl records and veered off to have a look, letting John continue on his own. He watched Harold for a minute, then turned his attention to the car parts, and the man behind the booth who was ready and willing to talk shop with him. 

When Harold tapped him on the shoulder awhile later, he was startled to realize how much time had passed. Harold was holding out an album to him: classic Pink Floyd, one of John's favorites. 

"It's not 180 gram, but I know you like them. Consider it an extra late birthday gift, if you like."

Harold liked to buy him things. He suspected it was because when they'd first met, John had had nothing to his name except the clothes he wore, and Harold had more money than he knew what to do with. Truth was that John didn't need anything. Being in the military, the CIA, and then being homeless, had taught him that it was easier to go through life if you didn't own much. Now though, he felt himself growing roots where he'd never expected to. And it was nice having someone buy him something just because he wanted to. 

"Thanks, Harold. You didn't get me a turn table too, did you?"

The stupefied look on Harold's face said it all, and John laughed out loud. "It's your own fault. You're the one with the record player, so we'll have to listen to it at your place."

"I've got headphones. I can listen to my opera digitally. It's not the same, but it'll do." 

John laughed again. If he hadn't had his hands full, he would have given Harold a hug, maybe even kissed him. Yet, this was too public a place for displays of affection for them, so he didn't. 

"What were you discussing?" Harold asked as they stepped away from the automotive booth and into the flow of foot traffic.

"Debating whether or not to restore a sports car. I've not decided if it should be a classic or not. Maybe a Mustang or Camaro. If I can find one I'm interested in for a decent price, that is."

"You know money's no-"

"I know. But if I do this, it's my hobby. I'm not letting you pay for it, even if you do sign my paycheck."

"Of course.”

“Then again, I could get something newer, like a Viper. I could use that for work.”

“Right,” Harold’s tone was dry. “And I suppose next you’ll be wanting me to install a catch net and other fancy gadgets to aid in your capture of the bad guys in order to help you stand out and blow our whole operation.” 

“It would make our job easier, don’t you think?” Now John was grinning. 

“Shall we check out the farmer's market before we go?" Harold asked.

Conversation clearly over, John let Harold lead, "Sure. What do you want for dinner? I'll cook. Maybe we can find the ingredients here."

As they debated between a pasta dish and a casserole, John stupidly let his guard down, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a familiar voice behind them greet Harold by name. 

"Ms. Groves," Harold turned and greeted her back. "Ms. Shaw."

"I see you brought the big lug with you. He must be great for carrying all of your groceries."

John kept his anger in check, his face turned to stone. No emotion. He still didn't like Root. Not since she'd kidnapped Harold and tortured a man in front of him, among other things. She was the reason Harold had had Post-Traumatic Stress for so long after that incident, though he'd been doing better since he'd befriended her. John didn't understand why Harold had done that, but it wasn't his place to harp on it once Harold had made it clear that he wouldn't unfriend her. John could only tolerate her as best he could. 

"He has a name, Ms. Groves," Harold was saying. "I'd appreciate it, if you would use it."

Beside her, Shaw looked bored out of her mind. John liked Shaw. She was trustworthy and dependable when it came to their job, but he couldn't determine what her relationship with Root was. They seemed to be close, and then Shaw would make a comment that said otherwise. He figured that was one relationship he would never understand. Not that he understood much when it came to Root.

"You haven't seen any weapons for sale here, have you?" Shaw asked him. 

John shook his head. "Nope. Sorry."

"Drat. Come on," Shaw said. "We see enough of these guys on a daily basis and they have sandwiches over there. I'm hungry. Let's go."

"Guess we'll see you two later!" Root wiggled her fingers at them as Shaw dragged her away. 

John let out a breath of air, readjusted the bags on his shoulders, and nudged Harold in the direction of the farmer's market. Now he just wanted to get the ingredients for dinner, and go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In "Get Carter" (S01E09), they had this conversation, which partly inspired this short:  
> "I didn't know you collected dolls, Finch." - John  
> "As you know, I collect rare books, Mr. Reese, 180 gram vinyl, and a Xerox Alto when I can find one." - Harold
> 
> Also, there’s a nod to the 1994 TV show, Viper, because I couldn’t help myself.


	11. Kara's Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara finds John and Harold and the deal she offers on behalf of her new boss will tear John apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This references my previous story, "Mr. & Mr. Rinch" in a minor way. There is a reference to "Blue Code" (S01E15) and a nod to a conversation John had with Root in "Firewall" (S01E23).

John was in a monkey suit, women were staring at him, and Harold was nowhere nearby. This was all Harold's fault in the first place. Harold was of the opinion that while the world crumbled around them, they could, at the very least, hold some of the facade in place by attending this art museum fundraiser. John wasn't as convinced it would work, but who was he to argue with Harold, when the billionaire wanted to spend his money on art, alongside saving the world one person at a time? 

He did wish the women would stop staring at him though. It made him a tad bit uncomfortable. If one of them approached him, he wasn't sure what he was going to do to get her to go away. 

Thankfully, the person who did approach him, happened to be Harold. In a bit of a hurry too, it seemed. 

"Harold?"

"Save me," he uttered. "There's an older woman on my heels and she doesn't seem to want to let me go!"

John laughed. And he'd thought he'd had it bad. He glanced over Harold's shoulder and saw the very woman, walking with a purpose, her blue sequined gown shimmering in the light as she moved through the crowd carrying two flute glasses, clearly searching for someone. 

"Who is she?" John asked. 

"I don't know. I ran into her at the bar. Sorry, I didn't end up getting our drinks. It seemed safer not to."

"It's all right. I'll forgive you. But, what do you want me to do with her?"

"Where is she?"

"Coming this way."

"Dance," Harold blurted. 

"Dance?"

"With me. Yes."

"Are you sure? We never did get to take that dancing lesson at the couple's retreat."

"You can't be that bad, John. Besides, it's probably the only thing that'll save me."

"You got it, boss," John said with a smile. 

Harold smacked him playfully on the arm, before he let John put his arms around him.

"Tell me when she goes away."

"Even when she does, we don't have to stop," John murmured as he maneuvered Harold slowly around their little corner of the dance floor, mindful of his spinal injury.

"This is rather nice," Harold agreed.

John kept an eye on the bottle blonde in the blue dress and felt his guard relaxing. They were in a relatively safe place what with the tight security and metal detectors at the front door. Harold was merely concerned for one woman who'd thought he was single. What could possibly go wrong? 

"She's spotted us," John said, smiling against Harold's ear. "She has a startled look on her face. Now confusion. And she's turning away. She looks a little dejected, Harold."

"Too bad."

John snorted. 

Then, to John's horror, another woman emerged from the crowd, headed straight for them. This one, he was well acquainted with. "No. No. No. No." He shifted Harold to his side, and glanced around to ensure no one was behind them. 

"John?" Harold looked confused. "What's wrong? What's going on?"

When he didn't see anyone, John moved to shield Harold behind him. 

"Didn't realize you liked men, John." Kara Stanton stepped up to them in her slinky black dress, head cocked to one side, as she always did when evaluating a situation. 

"Stay away," John ordered her. 

Why wasn't he carrying his weapon? He should have defied Harold's instructions to leave it at home. He could have gotten it through security if he'd tried. But, for Harold, he hadn't even done that much.

"What did I tell you, John? You know you can't have nice things in this job. Though I'm not sure what's so nice about this one. What on earth do you see in him?"

"Don't do this, Kara."

She took a small Derringer from her black purse and carefully aimed it at them, shielding it with her body so no one else could see it. "Oh no. I'm not going to do anything here. You are. Walk."

Harold pulled on John's arm. He was trapped. Kara was just out of reach. If he attempted to attack her, she would shoot first and ask questions later. He had no choice but to do what she wanted. John turned, and keeping Harold in front of him, he walked the two of them to a door at the back of the banquet hall. 

The door lead to a smaller banquet room. It was dark and empty, save for a few tables bunched at the far side and stacks of chairs along one wall. The gauzy curtains at the windows allowed for some dim light to penetrate, but it didn't go deep into the room.

"That's far enough," Kara said when they'd reached the middle.

John and Harold turned around, John, again, being careful to keep Harold behind him. 

Kara brought out a second gun from her purse. Another Derringer. She handed it to John, who took it a little unwillingly. Whatever plans she had, they did not include his shooting her with this gun. 

"Here's how this is going to go. My boss wants Harold Finch to work for him, instead of against him."

Harold pulled from John's grip and moved to stand beside him. "And what if we don't go with you willingly, Ms. Stanton?"

"That's not going to happen," John agreed, not surprised that Harold knew who she was.

"Yeah, my boss didn't think so either. But if he can't have Harold... no one can." She paused for a dramatic moment. "John, you shoot him, and I let you live."

John tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat, his brain going blank. 

"If you don't shoot him, I will be forced to shoot you. Then we take Harold and brain wash him into helping our rightful cause. The choice is yours, John."

A group of men in suits stepped into the room behind her and stood in a line, blocking the only exit. 

"No, Kara. Please. Don't do this," John pleaded.

"John," Harold said his name with a finality to it. John turned to face Harold. "Do it."

"No..." Harold's face went blurry before his eyes. 

"I would rather it be by your hands," Harold said, soft and quiet. 

"I..." John's voice failed him. 

"John," Harold was determined. "John..."

A hand was placed on his shoulder and John jumped out of his skin, whirling around to catch Kara by the throat. No way was she putting them through this. No fucking way. 

"John! John, it's me! John!"

There was a bark, followed by a low growl. He blinked, and Harold was in front of him, his throat caught in John's tight grip. He let Harold go, then pulled him in for a hug, aware of his surroundings enough to know that Kara was gone. 

"Oh God. Oh my God. Are you all right?! Did I hurt you?! I'm so sorry, Harold. Oh God."

Harold took several deep breaths near his ear. "I'm fine, John. I'm fine. It's okay. Everything's okay."

"No, no, everything's not okay. I could have... I..."

John saw that they were in Harold's bedroom. Bear was peering at them over the edge of the bed on Harold's side, threatening to jump up to be with them, even though Harold had told him no on numerous occasions. 

John had been dreaming. He should have realized it sooner. This had been a recurring dream for a while now. His worst nightmare. He should have recognized it. 

"I'm sorry," he said again, as he finally released Harold. 

"Are you okay?" Harold peered at his face, scrutinizing his every detail.

John flopped back onto his pillow. "I'll be okay." He heaved a sigh. "I'm too dark, Harold. Perhaps it might be best..."

"Be quiet." Harold leaned over and planted a kiss on his temple. "You've been sweating up a storm. Let me get you a glass of water."

"I'm going to need something stronger than that." 

Harold only smiled, before he got up and padded out to the kitchen. 

While he was gone, Bear moved around the bed to John's side, begging for pets. John put his hand out and let Bear nudge him with his head while insistent swear words repeated in his head. 

What if he'd really hurt Harold? There was no way he could live with himself if he had. Harold was the only real light in his darkness and he couldn't let anything happen to him, especially not something by his own hands. John didn't want to go, but he still had his own apartment and maybe it would be best if they kept a distance from each other when they weren't at work. 

Rolling his shoulders, he realized his muscles were tight. He was too keyed up to sleep now. He needed to go work out for awhile, maybe go for a long run through Central Park on his way home. 

He was just swinging his legs out from beneath the covers when Harold returned, carrying two steaming mugs. 

"What's this?" Now curious, John slid back under the covers and carefully took the mug he was offered. It wasn't the coffee he'd been expecting. Nor was it tea. 

"This wasn't what I meant when I said I needed something stronger than water."

Harold smiled as he crossed the room to the other side of the bed and got back in beside him with his own mug. "I know. Drink it anyway. You'll feel better."

John shook his head. It wasn't like Harold would keep hard liquor around anyway. John knew because he'd gone looking once after a particularly tough number. 

Then again, he hadn't had hot chocolate in years. Not since his adoptive mother had made it for him when he was a kid. He took a sip of it now, and found memories returning: the kitchen where he'd grown up for a time, the lemon scent of the dish soap she'd used, the nights when she would make him hot chocolate whenever he had a bad dream, or whenever he had friends over in the wintertime. 

"I always have hot chocolate after a nightmare," Harold said, bringing him back to the present. 

John found the aroma to be a little bewitching, if he was honest.

He rested his head on Harold's shoulder. "Why?"

"Because it tastes good, that's why." 

John sighed, giving in. "No matter how dark my world gets, some how you're still there leading me through it."

Harold found his hand and gave it a squeeze while John took another sip of his hot chocolate and felt his muscles starting to relax.   



	12. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold gets John a surprise gift and remembers his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was partly inspired by this conversation from "Til Death" (S02E08):
> 
> "Guess Murder is one way to break up a marriage. But wouldn't divorce have been simpler?" - John  
> "Not if he wants the sale to go through. When Frank McCourt was trying to sell the Dodgers, it was held up for months while he went through one of the most expensive divorce cases in history." - Harold  
> "I didn't know you were a baseball fan, Finch. The Mets?" - John  
> "Not particularly." - Harold  
> "Orioles?" - John  
> "I suppose." - Harold  
> "The A's?" - John  
> "Oakland is fine, and the Cubs, and the Red Sox too, although, I'm not certain my affection for any one of these teams would reveal where I grew up, Mr. Reese." - Harold
> 
> This was also partly inspired by the episode "COD" (S02E09), where this conversation took place:
> 
> "You're a baseball reference machine, Finch. You should get out more, take in a game once in a while."- John  
> "Who says I don't." - Harold
> 
> And there is a slight nod to "If-Then-Else" (S04E11), but blink, and you'll miss it!

Harold enjoyed baseball for the game itself, regardless of which team won. But he thought it might be fun to root for the opposite team John would root for, if they ever got the chance to catch a game together. 

They had wrapped up their latest case very late the night before and Harold had instructed John to sleep in for as long as he liked, knowing John wasn't the type to sleep in. At all. But one could hope. 

Whether he'd actually slept in or not, John didn't turn up at the library until 11am. 

"Have you been here all morning, Harold?"

Harold only nodded, as he continued typing a long string of complicated code. 

"What's on the docket for today? Have we got any new numbers?"

"This is for you." Harold picked up a white envelope with John's name neatly printed on the outside and handed it to him, without even looking up from his monitor. 

"What's this?"

"Open it and find out."

He listened as John used a letter opener to slit the envelope and dump the contents into the palm of his hand. 

"Baseball tickets? You got me baseball tickets?"

Harold grinned and finally looked at him. "Seattle Mariners versus the New York Yankees, this afternoon. I thought we could use a little fun break from the craziness that's been going on lately."

John's smile became a grin. "Thanks, Harold. But are you sure this isn't just a cover to spy on a new number? The last time you tried something like this-"

"It's not. I promise. Now, we'd better hurry if we're going to get somewhat decent parking."  


* * *

  


"Who's your favorite team?" John asked as they sat down in their seats at the stadium. "You never did answer that question when I asked it the first time."

"And for good reason," Harold quipped. 

"I'm still not going to find out, am I?"

"For today, my team will be the Yankees, if that makes you feel any better."

"Why not the Mariners?"

"Because I'm assuming, from what I know about you, that they will be your team. And I thought it would be fun to root against you."

"That's not very friendly," John said with mock horror.

Harold smiled. "Just a little friendly rivalry. Surely you can handle that, can't you?"

"For you, Harold, I can try."

"Good."

When the first pitch was thrown, the cheering of the crowd, the call for hotdogs on sale, and the crack of the bat, all faded away to a memory of the time Harold's father had taken him to a real baseball game when he was still young. Even then, he hadn't understood why people got so worked up over a game. But he'd enjoyed spending the long weekend with his Dad: the nine hour car trip into Chicago, watching the game and the crowd surrounding them in the stadium, and the long drive back home.

It had been a warm, sunny, summer day. One of the better memories he had of his father. It had been a good time, and even though baseball wasn't one of Harold's most favorite things, he was glad they'd done it. His father was the baseball fan in the family and it had made him happy to take his son to see a game in person. It had made Harold happy to see his dad smiling and laughing and having fun. He'd enjoyed that game so much more than anything they'd seen on television back home, but Harold knew it was more than just that: It was spending time together that was important, for both of them.

His father had taken the time to learn about the various birds in their back yard just because Harold had a fascination with them. Likewise, Harold had spent a good amount of time learning baseball statistics and facts for his father. He'd often repeated them over and over again as his father's memory slowly drifted away over the years. It had helped both of them to have something to hang on to. Birds and baseball. 

And these days, he still kept a running list of baseball statistics in his head in his father's memory. When he couldn't sleep at night, he would sometimes find himself telling his dad how each team was doing that season. He would talk about the star players, the up-and-comers, but also the players that didn't get talked about much. They had all been important to his father.

Harold supposed that now, John was the baseball fan in his family, and he would occasionally see a game with him, the way he supposed John would attend a technology conference, if Harold had asked him to. And for John, he could recite a few baseball statistics too. 

He was startled out of his reverie when John placed his hand in Harold's and asked, "Mind if I root for the home team too?"


	13. Dillinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold remembers Rick Dillinger, his first primary asset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is includes spoilers for "Shadow Box" (S02E10), "Zero Day" (S02E21), "God Mode" (S02E22), & "RAM" (S03E16).

Sweat prickled on the back of Harold's neck and rolled down his forehead. He gasped for breath, limping as fast as he could on the dark path, lit occasionally by a streetlight and a hint of moonlight. He needed to catch up. If he could prevent this from happening... 

The trouble with hiring ex-government agents was that they sometimes lost their sense of loyalty, and then it all came back to bite you in the ass. 

Harold's body wouldn't let him move any faster. He was going to have to get out of that damned wheelchair more often and work harder at his physical therapy, if he ever wanted a better range of movement. 

Up ahead, he could just make out Mr. Dillinger's silhouette in the darkness still moving away from him, his long black coat flapping in the breeze and the laptop bag hanging from his shoulder.

"Mr. Dillinger!" he called out, hoping to catch the man's attention enough to slow him down even if he didn't stop and turn around again. "Mr. Dillinger!" Harold was nearly out of breath and his words came out as croaks. There was no way Dillinger had heard him. 

"No, no, no, no..." Harold's voice was now no more than a whisper as his quarry slipped into the trees in the park. 

He paused to catch his breath. He had to keep this from happening. The consequences would be untold otherwise. He wasn't sure why that was so, but something in his gut told him it was. Though his legs wanted nothing more than to collapse on the pavement, he kept going. 

When he reached the edge of the trees, Harold had to let his eyes adjust to the darkness under the canopy of leaves. Before he could see, he heard someone, decidedly Asian by the thick accent, asking questions in rapid fire English. Individual red oak trees began to take shape in front of him and Harold moved closer as a familiar voice said something about a laptop, making him stumble forward, his adrenaline spiking and fear coursing through his body. 

The voice hadn't been Mr. Dillinger's. 

At the boundary of a small clearing he saw that it was worse than he'd thought. 

"Mr. Reese?" 

The man in question turned his head slowly, as if he'd been expecting to see Harold. 

"You shouldn't be here, Finch."

"What are you doing here? Where is Mr. Dillinger?"

"You're not Dillinger?" The Asian man asked. He pulled out a gun and carefully aimed it at Reese. 

"Nooo!" Harold was startled to hear his own voice come out as a whine. What the hell was happening here?! 

"Go home, Finch," Reese implored.

"Not without you." Harold put on his bravest face yet, and stepped between the two men. 

"I just want the laptop," the Asian man said. "Then I'll give you the money, I'll leave, and it will all be over. Okay?" 

"I can't let you do that," Harold said, his whole body trembling now. 

Harold felt John's hands on his hips, moving him out of the way at the same time he heard a gun go off. He cried out, in fear, in pain, he wasn't sure which. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, tight enough to leave bruises. 

"John?" 

"Harold?"

"John." Harold let out a breath of air he'd been holding in too long. 

"Open your eyes, Harold. Everything's okay. It was just a dream."

Harold blinked his eyes open and found himself sitting up in John's bed, in the huge loft, not on a forest floor in the middle of Central Park. John was beside him, loosening his hold on Harold's shoulder. 

"Are you okay?"

Harold couldn't move, couldn't get words out of his throat. He couldn't... He was sick of this recurring dream. Always John in the end. It was always John getting shot. But John was there, beside him. Alive. He was alive. They both were... 

John wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer to the warmth of his body. Harold shuddered. 

"Will you tell me about him?" John asked. 

"Who?" The question caught him off guard and Harold pulled away, wary of where this was going. 

"You were talking in your sleep."

He froze. Oh God. What could he have said?

When he didn't offer anything up, John said, "You didn't say much. But you did mention a Mr. Dillinger."

Harold deflated at the name. He could have done better by Dillinger. He knew that. He could have trusted him with the truth and maybe he'd still be around. Maybe if he hadn't hired him, the man would still be alive. But what was the use of debating the issue when Dillinger was dead and there was no going back? 

"Harold?" John's voice was quiet. "You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not."

"No, I... I probably should. You should know the truth. I wasn't truthful with him and it cost him his life. In fact," Harold heaved a sigh, "he's the reason I was so forthright when I first hired you."

Harold tried to imagine a life without John... and couldn't.

It was then he noticed Bear was sitting beside the bed, resting his chin on the comforter, as close to Harold as he could get, giving him sad puppy eyes, and whining to ask if he was okay.

John gave him a gentle squeeze around the shoulders. "Hold that thought. Why don't you get more comfortable and I'll get us a strong drink."

Harold started to splutter out a response, but John was already out of bed and headed for the kitchen. He let out another sigh and dutifully got himself more comfortable so he could pet the dog, who somehow made everything infinitely better, just for being there. The soft fur on his head was soothing enough that Harold closed his eyes for a few moments and relaxed further.

When John came back, Harold smiled and was delighted to see two steaming mugs in his hands. John had made hot chocolate for both of them. 

"Have I suitably swayed you in your choice of late night drink, John?"

John got back into bed. "We both know where I was when you found me. This is for the best."

No, John was one of the few people who could claim he was an alcoholic by choice, and could walk away from it when he needed to. But Harold wasn't going to push. Perhaps it was better this way.

"So, Dillinger?" John prompted, taking a sip of his hot drink.

Harold, likewise, took a sip from his mug, to prepare himself for the story he was about to tell. He was pleased by the wonderful drink John had created as rich milky chocolate flooded his mouth and slipped down his throat. He gave a brief smile, and steeled himself for any reaction John might have. They'd never really talked about this, even after Root had tried to free The Machine. 

"Mr. Dillinger was... your predecessor," Harold said in a whoosh of air, before rushing on. "He was full of himself and I kept valuable secrets from him that I shouldn't have."

"Like what?" John coaxed. 

"I refused to tell him about The Machine, for one thing."

"Oh." 

"He was also reckless at times. I understood your reasoning when you became reckless." The bank vault incident, when John had been arrested by the FBI, came to mind. His own heart had shattered and fear had welled up within him: fear that he wouldn't be able to get John back. 

He took another sip of hot chocolate, swallowed back the fear that clung to him, even now, and continued, "Mr. Dillinger was reckless just because he could be."

"I've met a few guys like that," John confirmed.

"Daniel Casey was the last number we worked together."

"Casey?" John said, with a bit of surprise. 

Harold nodded. "The government had been using him to hack The Machine."

"Of course. Now I know why Kara and I failed to collect his laptop." John shook his head.

"When I wouldn't tell Mr. Dillinger where I was getting my information, he stole the laptop."

"Let me guess... he's the one who sold it to the Chinese?"

"Right before he was assassinated by a government agent, yes." 

Harold's heart pounded at this admission. Mr. Dillinger was dead because Harold had hired him to be his primary asset. If he hadn't... 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Well, for his death, yes, of course. I don't wish death on anyone. I still like to believe he had a good heart, even after what he did in the end. But the laptop is another story."

Harold purposefully did not tell John about the drugged tea. Why he didn't want him to think too badly about a dead man, he wasn't sure.

"That virus had to get out into the world," John said, remembering the hidden virus within a virus Harold had told him about so long ago. 

"And it did. I just didn't expect to get double crossed in the process." Harold's hands were beginning to tremble. Didn't John see the truth?

"Do you think if you'd told him the truth from the start he wouldn't have?" John asked, as he finished off his hot chocolate and set his mug aside. 

This was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Harold stared at his empty mug. Where had all of his hot chocolate gone?

"I didn't warn him death was a possibility. I should have. Maybe if I'd explained the situation better..."

"He still would have been reckless, Harold."

"Would he?"

"In my experience, yes."

"Oh."

"Look, despite what he did, despite all of it and the domino effect it had, things have turned out all right, haven't they?"

"They have." Harold did have to agree with John on that point. Not that death was any way to get rid of an employee who wasn't working out, but he was immensely happier with John, and happy with him in other regards too. 

"Come." John took Harold's empty mug from his hands and set it on his own nightstand. "Let's get some sleep. There will be numbers wanting rescuing in the morning and we need to be ready for them."

"You do realize..."

"I don't blame you for any of it, Harold."

John placed a kiss to the top of his head, and it wasn't long after when Harold was drifting back to sleep in the warmth of John's arms. 


	14. We Take Care of Our Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verbal sparring ensues as Carl insists on taking care of Anthony. Yes, this is Carl/Anthony slash and there is no Harold or John in this one!

Anthony Marconi had done his job. His boss was still alive thanks to his quick thinking and quick reflexes. He was annoyed, however, that he'd slipped up in just the right second as to let Dominic's man get the drop on them long enough to fire his gun. That shouldn't have happened. Anthony had always prided himself on being better than that. 

Alas, this time, he'd failed. 

Not that Carl Elias saw it that way. Of course he wouldn't. Carl had full faith in him, and that faith hadn't diminished a bit. In fact, it had probably grown, tenfold. 

Carl approached the couch in the safe house, with a blanket in his arms. He unfolded it, and carefully draped it over Anthony's chilled body. 

Carl's hands were now clean of his blood, and all of the medical supplies had been cleaned up and put away. How many made men could say their own boss had pulled a bullet out of them and stitched them up? None, he'd bet. Granted, Carl wasn't great with a needle and thread, but otherwise, Carl was the best. No, he was more than that.

"How are you doing?" Carl asked. 

"Carl..."

"You know you can't stop me from asking."

"I'm fine." He'd failed and he was tired. A nap would have been good right about then.

"You were shot."

"Yeah? So? It's part of the job description." He would be tough, he would pretend like it didn't bother him that he'd let his guard down. 

"No it isn't. I'm the one who wrote your job description. I did not put that in there. No way do I ever want to see you getting hurt on my account."

He didn't want to argue. Verbally sparring with Carl was exhausting, especially after having a bullet pulled out of him. But more than that, he and Carl almost never argued. 

"I know you're beating yourself up about this," Carl said. "No, I don't want you to get shot, but that doesn't mean it's your fault."

"It doesn't?" Where exactly was he going with this?

"God, no. Blame the man with the gun."

"His name's Link." 

"Him. Don't you worry. We'll get him some day. Maybe not today, or tomorrow. But someday. Anyone who tries to hurt one of my own, especially you..."

He liked the sound of that. Carl always did have a way of putting things into perspective. Anthony's smile turned into a grimace, as he tried to shift onto his uninjured side to get more comfortable. 

"Can I get you anything? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, you've done enough."

Carl carefully tucked the blanket around Anthony, as if he either thought he could wrap his legs tight enough so that he couldn't escape, or because he wanted Anthony to be hot by morning. Anthony snorted at that last thought. 

"Your water needs refreshing. I'll go get you a new glass."

Before Anthony could say anything, Carl was gone. 

When he came back, he had the glass in one hand, and the tv remote and a book in the other.

"I wasn't sure what you would want to do. I don't want you getting bored. I think you just started this book, right? Is it any good?"

"Carl-"

"Is it any good? I heard this author's good. Maybe I should read it?"

"Carl, you're mothering me again. Please stop."

Carl paused, and looked at Anthony. "Oh. Sorry. Right. Bad habit. Won't happen again."

"Honestly, though, you could have gotten me something stronger than water."

"Not with the medication you're on."

"Get over here and help me watch some tv so I'm not bored," Anthony said, his smile faint.

It wouldn't be long before he fell asleep anyway, the way the drugs were starting to kick in. Carl joined him on the couch, squashing himself between Anthony and the back of the couch.

"Let me know if you need me to move," Carl said, wrapping an arm around him, mindful of his tender wound.

"You're perfect, right where you are. Now, where'd the remote go?"


	15. Losing Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has held his grief back for so long he's not sure what it looks like any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy on the emotions and some angst.   
> Contains spoilers for: "The Crossing" (S03E09), "4C" (S0313), & "Beta" (S03E21).

Exhausted from a busy week attempting to save more lives than usual, John started to clean up their research, picking up the stack of files to organize them into the cabinets Harold kept for all of their numbers. 

He hadn't expected to find her photo underneath them. The image of her caught his breath. Harold had told him her number had come up on multiple occasions until he'd realized why, but by then it had been too late to help her. There was nothing John or Harold could have done to save her. Nothing. 

Just like there had been nothing he could do to save Carter when she'd been shot standing right next to him. Or his parents when they'd both died. He'd been helpless every single time. Over the years he'd lost everyone who'd meant anything to him. 

He pulled open the drawer to slide Jessica's photo back into her folder... yes, she had a folder. It was rather thick, viewing all the times Harold had gotten her number. But John, who didn't normally clean up the library, hadn't realized what drawer her name was in. Right behind Jessica Arndt's folder was Joss Carter's, behind her was another number they'd lost, and behind him was another. All people John couldn't save in time. 

He flipped through the numbers. Thankfully there weren't many in this drawer. But they all stung, they all took a piece of him, making him feel battered and beaten. And this week, he had several more to add to the drawer. This would never be easy. That's what Harold had told him right from the beginning. But even knowing ahead of time, didn't help. Especially when those they'd lost were people they'd known. 

He split the files up into two correct piles and began slotting them in where they belonged. Each one, a punch to the gut. They'd only managed to save one person this week out of all the numbers they'd received. By the time he'd gotten all the new folders in their place, he was still left with Jessica's picture, staring up at him, waiting for him to put it away. Waiting. Waiting. And he couldn't. His fingers were turning white as he gripped the photo. His mind was stuck. 

What would he have done if he'd been able to get to her in time? He could have gotten her away from Peter. They could have run away together. Anywhere. Mexico. Or even some little podunk hick town in the middle of Iowa. Except that now he was with Harold, and he couldn't... if he'd never met Harold, what would have happened to him? What kind of a job would he have succeeded in that would pay the bills? Security guard? Bouncer? Body guard? Mail carrier? Nothing was the same as what he was doing now, what he loved doing for the world. For Harold. 

If he'd known Simmons was right around the corner in time, he could have protected Carter. He could have gotten her out of the way, gotten her to safety. She could still be alive today, doing what she did best, putting bad guys away. 

They were gone. His parents. Jessica. Carter. All the other numbers he couldn't save in time. They were gone and there wasn't anything he could do to bring them back.

John didn't realize his hand had turned into a fist until he was spinning around and aiming for the glass whiteboard, certain it was right behind him. What he hadn't counted on was Harold, standing in the way, his eyes suddenly wide with fright. John's brain shorted out for a moment, not knowing whether he should still throw the punch, or hold it back. He wanted to hit something, but only Harold was there and he couldn't... wouldn't... 

And then John was feeling the warmth of Harold's hands covering both of his, cutting off his will to fight, and bringing him to his knees. 

He wasn't sure what was happening, but his eyesight went blurry as something in his chest ached, no, didn't just ache. Hurt. He was startled to realize he was shaking. His entire body was trembling. John didn't remember there being a chair nearby, but Harold was sitting down, holding John's hands together in his lap, while John alternately stared at the ground or shut his eyes tight to keep the waterworks at bay. He wasn't going to cry.

Yet grief was a funny thing in that it touched everyone differently. He'd held it back for so long, he wasn't sure what it looked like anymore, if he ever had. The tears came then: hot, fast, and silent. And through it all, Harold held him, never once letting go.

* * *

John didn't know how long they stayed that way until he heard Bear's nails clicking on the hard wood floor and felt another human presence in the room. He held his breath, trying desperately to get himself under control. But the tears wouldn't stop, nothing would stop. His shoulders continued to shake. Bear's nails clicked away, and the other presence went with them a short moment later.

"Breathe, John," Harold told him. "Just breathe for me. Take a deep breath, count to 3, and let it out. Deep breath again. Count to three. Let it out. Keep breathing."

John did as he was told, listening to Harold's voice, internalizing it, until his breathing had evened out, and his tears had subsided a bit. 

It was then he realized that Harold was tapping a cipher on his knuckles absentmindedly. He listened for the pauses, figured out where it started, and began calculating the numbers: nine, zero, one, two, and five. Now he tried to determine what they might mean. If they were transferred into letters they would stand for I, J, A, B, and E, which didn't make an ounce of sense. Maybe it was some new computer code Harold was working on. But Harold kept tapping it out on his skin, the same five numbers, over and over and over again.

He thought back to ciphers that used numbers in place of letters and wondered if Harold had omitted the first number in all the double digits. If he had, what would these numbers translate to then? There were too many options to figure this out in his head. He would need to write it down somewhere, but that would require moving. Getting up. 

And just then... he was frozen to the spot, his hands still held in Harold's lap. And it felt good. Comforting. He was still shivering. He wouldn't be moving for awhile. As long as Harold would hold him, as long as he could stare at the floor and not show his face to the world yet. Not even to Harold. He was a mess and hiding it seemed like the best option just then.

He dutifully went back to solving Harold's cipher code, like a drowning man holding onto a small piece of driftwood in the middle of the ocean. Anything to keep himself afloat and not let his emotions drag him under. 

In his head, he tried all the combinations of letters that might match up with those numbers. First one, then another, and another, mentally discarding each one as he went. Then some of the letters began to make some sense. There was a word there that he hadn't expected to find.

John looked up at Harold in surprise. "Italy?" he asked. 

He looked down again. Did Harold want to see Grace? After this display, of course he would. She would be normal. She would be happy to see him, not fucking up saving lives and then bawling her eyes out like a baby. Though he'd thought he and Harold had been getting closer as a couple. He needed Harold, and the job, more than he ever wanted to admit and more than he was entirely comfortable with. But if Harold wanted to find Grace, no way was John going to stop him, no matter how much it broke him to let Harold go. 

"You've cracked my cipher, I see," Harold said with amusement. 

He lifted John's chin with his finger. His lips were turned up into a bit of a smile and his eyes were bright, but then they narrowed as Harold scrutinized John's face. 

"Grace?" John couldn't help but ask.

"Not entirely, it seems. It's an acronym, John," he explained. 

When John still didn't get it, Harold took a deep breath and began to explain further, "When you left for Istanbul, you had no trust in yourself, because you couldn't prevent Detective Carter's death. And I know you've had a hard time loving yourself when you worked with Ms. Stanton and Mr. Snow, and couldn't save Jessica. But I do. I always have, and I trust you with more than I have ever trusted anyone else. And I would do anything for you. You returned to me in Italy. I thought the acronym was only fitting."

_I Trust And Love You._

Harold blurred in front of him as he eased his hands out of Harold's light grip to take Harold's hands in his, and rest his forehead against them, letting the tears come as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.   


* * *

  
John only knew that his knees ached and he was physically and emotionally exhausted when Harold finally urged him to his feet. His legs felt unstable and wobbly as they made their way toward the padded bench in the history section. He sat down and Harold disappeared, only to return moments later carrying a pillow and a blanket. 

John let himself be put to bed. He felt numb, or maybe it was shock. He wasn't really sure and didn't have the mind set at that moment to figure it out.

"Get some rest, John. I have a few more things to finish up here, and then we'll go home. Okay?"

John reached out to grab Harold's hand and keep him there a moment longer. His face appeared drawn. This had taken a lot out of him too. 

"Thank you, Harold," he said, his voice scratchy. "For everything."

Harold smiled down at him before extracting his hand and going to meet Shaw and Bear at the top of the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In rewatching "Karma" (S04E17), John has a conversation with Iris which reminded me of this Domestic Intimacy story. I must have internalized that conversation and then forgotten about it. Anyway, this therapy scene broke my heart:  
> "Talk to me, John. If you ever want to be able to move on, you have to grieve." - Iris  
> "I'm not sure I know how to do that." - John


	16. Love in the Time of the Mafia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late at night and Carl is wondering why people do what they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is Carl/Anthony and contains a nod to one of Kara's lines in "Blue Code" (S01E15).

Carl lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling in the dark, his maroon silk pajamas smooth against his skin whenever he shifted under the covers of the king sized bed. The world was an interesting place for sure. The people in it too. He would never understand why some people had a heart of gold and others did not. Why was it so easy for some parents to deny their children and others simply gave them everything? Why did lovers turn on each other? Why did anything happen the way it did? 

He wondered what would have been different if his own father hadn't turned him away as a kid. If he'd grown up a real part of the family. Would he and his half-brother have lead the family together after his father's eventual passing? Or would they have fought it out to see which one was left standing? 

Thinking about his childhood, he remembered the glow-in-the-dark stars he'd had on his ceiling once, and wished he had them now. They would be something to stare at, at least. Something to break up the smothering blanket of darkness of his temporary hideout. But then, his childhood has been pretty dark and terrible and thinking about it wasn't always a good idea.

Regardless, he was happy with the way things had turned out. His father was dead. His half-brother was dead. And he had everything he ever wanted, right in the palm of his hand. Sure, it took a lot of hard work, but he knew what he was doing. He'd studied the best of the best bosses to see how they did things. He took a pinch from here. Pulled a little from there. Mixed in some of his own unique ideas. And voila! It was like a magic recipe. He was now in charge of half the city, and that was growing day by day. Eventually he would have three quarters of the city owned. Then one hundred percent. 

So, why did people do the things they did? Did it matter? Really? No. No, it didn't. The only thing that mattered was that they listened to him. That they took orders from him. As long as they obeyed him, everything would be cool. Just the way he wanted it. 

"Hey boss," There was a soft voice from the doorway, and a man's shape blocking the faint light from the living area of his basement hideout. 

Carl smiled. He would recognize Anthony's shape and voice anywhere. "You want a light?"

"Na. I'm good. Thanks."

"Okay."

Anthony was quick to undress to his boxer briefs and slide into bed. "It's been taken care of," he said. 

"Good. Did you have any trouble?"

"Only a little. Guy put up a fight for sure. But I got him in the end. He won't be bothering you again. Promise."

Anthony moved into the line of moonlight across the other pillow and Carl could see a gash across his forehead. Minor, but fresh. He reached up and gently placed a few fingers over it. They came away sticky with blood. 

"Anthony..."

"It's fine. Just a scratch. Don't worry about it."

"Can I at least clean it up for you and put a bandage on it?"

Anthony looked away. He hated it when Carl fussed over him. But fuss, Carl would. 

He gently took Anthony's chin in his hand and placed a kiss to his lips. "Let me," he whispered. "Please."

Anthony sighed. "Sure. Okay."

Carl got out of bed and went to get a wet washcloth, the antibiotic ointment, and a bandage. 

Back in the bedroom, he cleaned and dressed the cut by moonlight. 

"Do you ever stop and think about how much we're always in the dark," Carl mused. "Do you think we just are the dark?"

"Well, I like the dark, so if I am the dark, well, I guess it's fitting. Why? You don't?"

"As long as you're in it, then it's all fine by me."

Anthony leaned over, took the tube of ointment out of Carl's hand, and proceeded to kiss him into oblivion. 


	17. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After The Machine asked the team to kill a congressman, Harold went missing and only John knows where to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is post "Death Benefit" S03E20. Also note this story contains depression, which I tried to portray as accurately as possible for the story.

"Where is Harold?" Shaw asked. "What are we going to do without him?" She was pacing the library like a wild cat in a small cage. "I need this job, Reese. There's no other place for me in the world. You know?"

"Too well." He glanced up at her from Harold's computer. "You do realize your bank accounts get filled automatically, right? He's not going to make that stop. So unless something happens to compromise that set up, you shouldn't have to worry about money for the rest of your life."

"It's not just the money, and you know it. Root is off doing who the hell knows what and I'm stuck here. I'd go stir crazy staying at home doing nothing all day. What the hell else am I supposed to do? Knit?"

"That's one idea."

"Not funny. Why are you so calm? You depend on him and this job just as much as I do."

He depended on Harold more than she did, and she likely knew it, but he understood that Harold just needed some time to himself. 

"Would it help if I were to give you a job to do?" 

Her pacing was beginning to irritate him.

"What kind of a job?"

John shook his head. "You do also realize the numbers never stop coming, right?"

"Of course, but Harold was always the one-"

"We've got a new one. If you take a look into it, I'll check in with Harold."

She paused in her steps to stare at him, then came over and leaned on the table. "We got a new number? You know where Harold is?"

"I have an idea where he might be. Yes. That doesn't mean I can tell you anything more though. But I can give you this new number to keep you from wearing a hole in the floor."

"If you knew where he was, why haven't you done anything to find him?" She began pacing again, if a little slower this time, not as frantic.

"After what happened with McCourt, he needs some alone time to process it all. You know what a private person he is."

"Yeah, well, that's getting old. Fast." 

"Leave him be. He doesn't have the same training and background we do. This is hard for him."

She spun around to face him. "Then maybe he shouldn't have gotten into this job in the first place!"

"Would you have him do nothing, then? No one else is doing anything about the people we see on the irrelevant list." John pointed at her, anger coursing through his veins, as he tried hard not to get up and throttle her. "And don't forget, if it weren't for him, you wouldn't have this job."

"Okay, okay, you made your point. So tell me about this number." 

* * *

It had been several weeks since they'd kidnapped Congressman Roger McCourt and then let him go. Several weeks since Harold had left them to get away from the decision The Machine had made regarding said Congressman. John had stayed away from Harold's apartment, doing his best to give him the space he clearly needed, even though it was a difficult decision on his part. Every night he itched to go over, to at least confirm that Harold was doing okay and didn't hate him for siding with The Machine. Only now, it had truly been too long, and he was worried about Harold's well being. 

John still had the key Harold had given him, but he knocked out of a sense of privacy for Harold. When he still hadn't come to the door several long minutes later, John let himself in. 

"Harold?"

The apartment was dark and quiet inside. All the curtains were drawn tight against the windows, and there was a clinging musty-sweet smell, of a place quickly abandoned and long shut up.

"Harold?"

In the kitchen, dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, some of them growing mold, and none of them fresh enough to indicate that Harold had eaten anything recently. The garbage can was overflowing, the stink permeating the air. This was not like Harold, who usually kept his apartment spotless. More spotless, even, than John kept his own. 

Had he taken what he could and left New York? John's heart lurched at the thought. He wouldn't be able to do this job without Harold. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

The bedroom did not contain Harold either, though the dresser drawers and the closet hadn't been ransacked for a quick getaway. The bed was rumpled and unmade. 

Back down the hall in the other direction, he finally found Harold in the livingroom, curled up in a fetal position on the couch, staring at a dark tv, the remote several feet away on the floor. John knelt in front of him, to see that his eyes were almost vacant, and his skin was pale and gaunt. He wore no shoes, only a dress shirt, trousers with no belt, and a pair of blue socks. It was clear, by the stains and the odor that he hadn't showered or changed clothes in a few days, if not in a full week. 

Thankfully, he was breathing.

"Harold?" John kept his voice low, trying not to startle him if he hadn't heard John come in. "It's me, John."

"Go away," Harold's voice came out as a rough whisper.

"I'm here to see if you're okay."

"Did you kill him yet?"

"You didn't want me to, remember?"

"I remember you begging to make it happen."

"Harold, you told us not to. Congressman McCourt is still alive, wreaking havoc as we speak. I promise I didn't kill him. And no one else did either."

Harold refused to look at him. "I can't be a part of that, John. My own creation..."

"The Machine knows how you feel and has taken that into consideration. We got our first new number this afternoon. I let Shaw handle it so I could come check in on you."

"Good for you." 

"When was the last time you ate anything?"

"Don't know. Don't care."

"Well, I care. We need to get you into the shower, into clean clothes, and then get some food into you."

"That's a lot of things I'd rather not do."

John was losing his patience. What had happened to Harold in the few weeks since he'd last seen him? He needed a plan of action here. He stood up, and went back into the kitchen, where the smell nearly overwhelmed him. He pulled out his phone and called Shaw. 

"What?" she answered. 

"I've got Harold, but there's a situation I need to handle here. Don't know how long I'll be. Might be just the afternoon, but will likely be longer than that. I just wanted to let you know. Feel free to call me if you need anything, but I won't be back at the library for awhile."

"Great. Anything you need my help with?"

"Unfortunately, no. You're better off handling the number. I've got this."

"Well, in that case, I'll see you when I see you. But don't take forever."

He hung up, put his phone away, and began to clean up the kitchen, throwing the trash in the dumpster out back, washing the dishes and putting them away. When he was done with that, he grabbed any piece of fabric he could find around the apartment that needed washing, from Harold's bed sheets and towels to his scattered clothes, and threw them in the washing machine.

While he worked, he ran a list of groceries to buy in his head in order to fill the empty refrigerator and wrote them down when the laundry was in the machine. 

John returned to the livingroom to see that Harold hadn't moved an inch. 

"I'm going grocery shopping, Harold. I'll be back in a little while. Okay?"

Harold made a noncommital noise and John dutifully locked the door behind him as he went out. 

* * *

When he returned, he got all the food put away, intending to grab take out and then make a pot pie later when there was more time to relax. In the meantime, he went back to Harold in the livingroom. 

"Harold, it's time for a shower."

"No."

"Why not?" 

"I never should have given you my key. Why can't you leave me alone?"

The words stung, but John resolutely pushed them away. 

"What ever happened to I.T.A.L.Y.? I care about you. And I'm here to take care of you, if you can't take care of yourself."

"I..."

When Harold didn't finish his thought, John took his arm and eased him into a sitting position, shifting his feet to the floor. He reached a hand up to cup Harold's face. 

"I promise, I'll take good care of you. You only need to walk to the bathroom with me right now. Nothing more than that."

"I can't."

"When it's all over you can go back to bed. I promise. Lean on my arm. We'll get there together."

Harold kept his eyes down, likely to watch what his feet were doing, more than out of shame, but he did let John hoist him up and guide him down the hall. 

He didn't bother asking Harold to undress. He got him seated on the toilet lid and proceeded to unbutton his shirt. Harold was still wearing his wedding ring on the necklace chain around his neck and John lifted it over his head to lay it carefully on the counter for safe keeping. Harold stared at a spot on the wall and didn't seem to care that anything was happening to him just then. John undressed himself as well and wrangled Harold into the shower, giving him basic instructions only when he needed Harold's help, trying not to overwhelm him. 

When the spray of hot water hit Harold, he jerked as if in surprise. He fell into John's chest, and John held his shivering body while Harold got himself together. 

"Are you okay?" John asked. 

"No," came the quiet reply. 

"What can I do?"

"Where did I go wrong, John? Why would The Machine want us to kill someone?"

"Probably because it was the fastest, and easiest, way to solve our problem and save a lot of lives in the process."

"But-"

"That doesn't mean it's the right thing to do. It's an option. Since we didn't take it, it just means we need to find another way to succeed. And we will. It might take longer. It might be infinitely harder. But we will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because we've done crazy things before and succeeded."

For awhile Harold didn't say anything, just let John hold him while the warm water sluiced over his skin. "This feels good," he said, sounding tired. "I didn't realize I was so cold."

John smiled to himself, glad to see that Harold was gradually improving. 

"We'll get some fuel into you in a bit. That'll help." 

John reached for the soap and Harold's wash cloth and began to wash his back as a starting point. 

"John, I... I don't know how I'm going to go grocery shopping. I don't know that I'll have the energy for it after this."

"It's been taken care of."

"Thank you," Harold whispered.

John shifted the shower curtain aside a little bit and urged Harold to sit on the edge of the tub while he got him washed under his arms. 

"I'm going to get the floor wet," Harold said. 

"I'll clean it up later."

"You're doing so much for me..."

"That's what partners do. They take care of each other."

Once Harold was clean, John reached for the nearby towel he'd pulled from the closet, and wrapped it around Harold's shivering shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down Harold's arms and back to help dry him off and keep him warm. 

"What now?" Harold asked. 

"I'm sending you back to bed, then going out for some Pho from the Vietnamese place down the street so we can get some good food in you."

"John, I don't think I can do all that."

"Yes, you can. I'm here to help you, remember?" 

Harold finally looked up into John's face. It appeared that his eyes were watery, and perhaps it wasn't the shower water still dripping from his wet hair. "Thank you," he said, for the second time. 

John found himself hugging Harold tight to him. "I'm here for you. But you've got to tell me when you need me."

"I didn't know," Harold mumbled into John's chest. "I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."


	18. Further Adventures in Babysitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to John's wily ways, Harold gets up the courage to do something a bit radical.

This was not how Harold had pictured spending his Saturday. If it had been up to him, he would have chosen to spend his day off in front of the fireplace in his apartment with Jules Verne and Glenn Miller in the background. Or maybe Verdi. 

Instead, he was at the safe house, without a clue in the world as to what he was doing. He held the neon green gun in his hand and stared at it, unsure if this was really something he wanted to get involved in, even though the others were already in agreement that this was fun. 

"Come on, Harold, don't make me regret choosing you for my teammate!" Lee Fusco came running up, followed by Taylor Carter close on his heels, both of them sporting Nerf guns. 

They ran past, laughing, as Harold watched. Why did Fusco have to get a call to a bad crime scene while he was watching Taylor? Calling John must have been retaliation for everything he'd done to Lionel. And if so, why did Harold have to get involved?

Bear whined from his bed, where John had ordered him to stay. The dog didn't want to miss all the fun either.

"Catch him, Harold!" Lee called back to him. "Save me!"

While Harold was debating the best way to save Lee, he was shot in the back by a Nerf bullet. He whirled around, but there was no one there. He could hear the boys screaming and laughing somewhere near the bedroom to his left. He felt another Nerf bullet hit him on his right shoulder. But once again, there was no one there when he turned to look. 

"Three strikes and you're out," John's voice called to him. "Come on, Harold, come and find me! I know you can do it."

Oh, was this how it was going to be played? Harold gripped his own Nerf gun tighter, and took a step to his left, when he bumped into something solid and warm. The next thing he knew, he was landing on the couch, with John on top of him. 

"Got you." John grinned down at him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for playing along, for the kids."

"Are you kidding me, I will so take you down for this!" Harold shoved John off, and brandished his weapon, firing off his first round before John had a chance to regain his balance. 

Harold had to admit he was a bit proud when he hit John square in the chest. 

"Oh! You got me!" John pretended to clutch at his wound, and stagger drunk, his knees going weak. But then like a shot, he was gone. 

Three strikes, Harold remembered. John was already at one. He could fire off a few more rounds. He could do this. He would. 

But he would need some help, "Lee! John's headed your way! Block him in!"


	19. We Must Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John parts from Harold with a heavy heart to assume his new identity as Detective Riley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rewriting of the ending to "Deux Ex Machina" (S03E23).

Harold had been shot. John was ever so grateful it was only a shoulder wound that would heal easily with time. He just hated the fact that Harold had been injured at all. He supposed, keeping Harold locked away in a glass bubble was not the best alternative to keeping him from getting hurt on the job. Besides, he'd always liked seeing Harold get out of the library every now and then to help with a case. 

And then there was the fact that Hersch was dead. John had never liked Hersch, ever since the man had tried to kill him the first time, but he'd been good to Shaw and he'd allowed John to rescue Harold, so John's feelings toward him had started to thaw a little in recent days. Now there was no way to talk him into switching sides, or even just ensuring that he, Shaw, and Harold stayed off anyone's radar. 

What he wouldn't do to be able to punch Greer in the face before kneecapping both of his knees. Every time he thought about how casually Greer had ordered Harold's execution and walked away, John's hands tightened into fists and he nearly heard himself growling low in his throat. 

Occasionally, as they'd made their way back to the library, Harold had placed a gentle, but firm, hand on his arm to calm him down. 

Since Shaw had come on board, she'd made sure the library was well stocked with medical supplies, and John was thankful for that. He'd been used to making do with whatever was on hand. Now, when it mattered most, he didn't have to. They had the right supplies for the job at hand and he was able to patch Harold up in no time. 

He still wanted to punch Greer in the face. 

John was going to insist he stayed glued to Harold's side for the next twenty-four hours, if only so he could keep an eye on Harold and his bullet wound. And maybe so Harold would be able to keep him from doing something stupid and reckless. 

Then the call came in from Root. They needed to evacuate the library and their lives. From that point on, they would be new people who didn't know each other and couldn't be seen together, because Samaritan was coming online and it didn't take a genius to realize it's first task would be hunting them down for elimination. 

They needed to move. Fast. Grabbing what he could, John's heart squeezed at the thought that he would be leaving Harold. He'd known this day might come, but it was still a surprise. He thought he'd have more time to prepare. Harold destroyed his computers and grabbed Bear's leash. John made sure the gate was closed and locked. Not that it made any difference if the library had been compromised. He had to get Harold out and away from the danger. That was the only important thing in that moment. 

They hurried down the grand staircase at Harold's fastest pace, John keeping a tight grip on his arm to keep him from falling. At the door, however, John stopped and turned to face Harold. There was nothing he could say that would make this okay. What was the point of even trying? 

Instead, he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Harold's soft lips. Harold, he thought, was still in shock, his lips unmoving and a little cool to the touch. But when John pulled away, Harold dived back in for a deeper, more fervent kiss, clinging to him for a moment, hesitant to let him go. 

Then it was time. The longer they lingered, the more danger they were in. 

John grabbed the door, yanked it open, and stepped out into the bright sunlight. He held Harold back with a palm to his chest, checking to see that there weren't snipers or even patrol cops on their way to arrest them. At the same time he let his hand linger a moment longer than necessary, feeling Harold's heartbeat, strong, against his palm. Perhaps this would be the last time he would ever feel that proof of life and his heart ached at the thought. 

He took Harold's arm and pulled him out of the building, their home for the past few years. Like the gate, he made sure the door was closed and locked. If there'd been time, maybe he would have invited some homeless in to make use of the building and further destroy whatever was left.

They walked quickly down the street, not even bothering to hide from the cameras. Samaritan wasn't online yet, though it would only be a matter of a few minutes at most. He'd determined the best plan of action was to go straight to his new apartment, where he could reorient himself as his new persona before reentering the world again. 

His turn off was coming up. He hadn't seen Harold's address, or his new name. He knew nothing of Harold's new identity. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to keep Harold within his sights, within his arms, to keep him safe and well cared for. He couldn't know anything and it was hard to accept that with Greer after them, Harold would be safer far away from him. 

His throat grew tight and his heart jack hammering in his chest. He had to say goodbye. Or, had they already done that at the library? This was where they were to part. The ache in his chest grew. He reached out and grabbed Harold's hand, giving it one last squeeze. 

"I.T.A.L.Y.," Harold whispered.

"Always," John choked out. 

Without looking at Harold, he let his hand go, and walked away. It was difficult not to turn back to see Harold one last time. When he did look over his shoulder, he realized he hadn't gotten as far as he'd thought. Harold had started down a side street and John watched him stop and turn back. They locked eyes, even as John kept walking, Harold radiating uncertainty in his. John had to force himself to turn back and keep going. 

Sweeping Harold off his feet and carrying him away wouldn't save the world. And they still had a mission, didn't they? Even if they never saw each other again? They had to hold on to that idea. He had a feeling Root would be. And Shaw for sure. He would too. If only because to do anything else would drive him insane. 

He turned onto a different side street that would take him to another side street, and far, far away from Harold and the life he'd grown to enjoy and the love that had saved his life. He was glad Harold had taken Bear with him. Bear would keep him safe. It was the best John could do. 

He could have taken the subway to his new apartment, but with energy to burn after the abrupt departure from the library, he walked the entire way, uncaring how far it was. 

* * *

John's new apartment was reminiscent of his old one with paint peeling off the walls and old paint splatter in a sickly green color covering the sink and the open shelves of the kitchen. The appliances were so ancient the refrigerator motor had a deathly rattle to it that suggested it was on it's last legs. 

The place had come furnished, which he was semi grateful for. At least he wouldn't have to buy anything, and yet, what he did have was stained, and detestable. The place was going to need a severe scrubbing. He figured there was time for that. He would definitely have to buy some new sheets and towels. Probably even one of those couch cover things too. Harold would know what they were called. John snorted. Harold would have just bought him a new couch.

Harold. Oh God, he couldn't think about him just then.

He perched on the edge of a rickety kitchen chair and further read through the packet he'd gotten on his new identity. He was now John Riley, an undercover Narc. He found case notes on a gang running drugs through elementary school kids and an undercover identity for his undercover identity. 

First he needed to settle in. He found new clothes in the bedroom closet, and a badge in the top dresser drawer, along with a Glock in a waistband holster hidden under fresh underwear and socks. He changed into a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, swapped his new driver's license into his wallet, put in some of the cash Root had provided and went to the local corner market to stock up on canned soup, ramen, and cleaning supplies. 

Harold had treated him well. Very well. He'd been spoiled, in fact. Now, things were back to the way they had been. At least he knew he could survive off these things. He would make it work. 

While he scrubbed everything in the apartment, he memorized the case notes and the photos of the perpetrators he would be bringing down. 

Tomorrow, he would make a new name for himself.


	20. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to handle the numbers, John is getting more and more stir crazy every day, when he gets a mysterious text message. References "Mr. & Mr. Rinch".

John wasn't doing enough to help people in his new role as a New York City Police Detective. There wasn't much he could do once the victims were already dead. A feeling of restlessness coincided with a strange tingling sensation in his fingers and toes. He itched to get out there and save lives so he wouldn't have to solve murders. But the NYPD kept him hobbled in a way The Machine never had. 

Several months had gone by since John had last seen Harold. He wondered about him every day. There was no way for him to keep an eye on him, to at least know if he was okay. He still didn't know anything about Harold's cover identity. And he likely wouldn't. He had no way of tracking him. Even if Harold still wore the GPS wedding band, John had had to dump his phone and he no longer had the application used to track the rings. It wasn't like The Machine could help him with such a thing. They were supposed to stay far away from each other in order to keep safe. And John would do anything to keep Harold safe. 

The one thing he wouldn't do, however, was take off his own ring. Someday Harold was going to need to find him and he wanted to be ready.

In the months since his move to his own new identity he had brought down a vicious drug gang and been promoted within the precinct to the murder squad. He was now partnered with Detective Fusco, and had been given Carter's desk, just to rub salt into the old wound, which still stung whenever he got lost thinking about it.

But then he would remember Harold, and he would get himself back on task. He was doing this for Harold. Everything he did these days was for Harold: he closed cases for Harold, he went for drinks with Fusco after work for Harold, he pretended to be normal for Harold, no matter how much he ached to have to do these things without him. 

He needed his old job back. He was slowly going stir crazy without it. That morning he'd had the chance to chase an armed suspect down multiple packed streets before tackling him to the ground with a short hand-to-hand fight and his restlessness had subsided for awhile, though he knew it would return sooner, rather than later.

At the end of his work day, just as he was shutting down his computer, a mysterious text from an unknown number popped up on his phone, giving him nothing more than an address he was unfamiliar with. Moments later, the text deleted itself. 

This was something related to Samaritan. It had to be. Or The Machine, which could also be cryptic at times, though it rarely spoke to him directly. Was The Machine sending him text messages now?

There was nothing for it but to check it out. 

"Yo, you catching a beer with me tonight?" Fusco asked. "I'm going with a bunch of the other guys. You should come. After what happened this morning, beer is a requirement."

John gripped the back of his office chair, his knuckles turning white, as he willed himself to keep calm. Going out for a beer with Fusco alone was one thing: not entirely pleasant, but bearable. Going out with a whole group of cops was something else entirely. He couldn't reveal how fake he was in this job and right now, he didn't think he could hold onto a normal facade for even one night with the guys. Not even for Harold.

"No. I've got an address I need to check out. Anonymous tip." Thank God for good excuses.

Fusco's brow furrowed. "You need me to come with you? Guy like you? You probably need someone to hold the reins tight."

"Very funny, Lionel. No. I've got this."

"Just remember, no funny business, okay? You've got to play it straight and narrow."

John almost cracked up laughing out loud, but held it in just in time.

"I'll be fine. Go enjoy your beer with the guys, honey."

The last thing he saw was Fusco sticking his tongue out at him as he turned and headed for the exit. 

* * *

The apartment's address was in a slightly better part of town from his own place, but it wasn't that much better. He could still pick out the drug addicts on the street corners and the dealers hiding in the doorways, waiting for a buyer to come along before they made themselves known to the world. 

Not wanting to announce his presence until he had a better idea of what he was walking into, he followed another tenant inside and darted up the stairs to the top floor. The hallway was dimly lit with scuffed hardwood that had seen better days and peeling wall paper in some striped pattern whose colors he couldn't make out.

He was about to knock on the door when he realized it was already open, a sliver of light visible around the edge of the jamb. 

He drew out his Glock and pushed the door open slowly, unsure what he would find. From his vantage point he could see what looked like a kitchen table strewn with red marked papers. A teacher lived here. He remembered Elias's fake identity as the high school teacher, and wondered who this person really was when they weren't in the classroom. 

"How was Detective Riley's day?" asked a familiar voice.

John stood there, feeling... probably looking, stupid. With the door open wider, he could now see Harold at the table, jotting a note on an essay in red ink.

"I... my day was fine," he said. Unable to form proper words, he tried to ask what Harold was doing there, if he was okay, but all that came out was "Ha... you... why... what are..." before he gave up and patiently waited for Harold to tell him why he'd been summoned there. And why that place? Had their safe house been compromised as well? At the same time his heart was beating out a shocked rhythm that nearly had him hyperventilating. Harold was there, in front of him, alive and well. 

Harold looked up and smiled at him. "John, for Heaven's sakes, put your gun away and close the door. Don't forget to lock it."

John did as he was told. He'd been dreaming of this moment for months. Now that it was here, he didn't know what to do or say.

"Sit. I'm just finishing up these papers I need to grade for tomorrow's class. I'll be with you in a moment."

The scene was so domestic, John couldn't really believe his eyes and ears. While he wanted to do nothing more than stare at Harold like a starving man, he decided not to sit. Instead, he wandered into the next room to explore Harold's new place. If Harold was going to be that blase about things, clearly the place was safe enough and no one crazy lurked around the corner. 

"Oooof!" 

A speeding rocket crashed into his stomach sending him sprawling to the floor.

"I did tell you to sit down," came Harold's dry remark from the kitchen. 

When he'd gotten his breath back and could finally determine what was happening to him, John realized Bear was furiously licking his face. He sat up, and wrestled with Bear until the dog had calmed down and gone back to his bed on the far side of the livingroom. John had missed Bear too. Though he hadn't realized just how much until that moment. 

Looking around, he was surprised to find a cozy, if rather bare, livingroom. The couch was clearly used, but in much better condition than his own. There were floor lamps on each end and a coffee table in front of it. Along one wall, were a row of three windows, their curtains drawn tight. Against the opposite wall was one low bookcase, that appeared to be made of particle board. On it was a small selection of DVDs and paperbacks, mostly classics: mysteries, science fiction, and some literary works as well. In front of the couch was a battered television and a small dvd player.

John moved into the bedroom next. Spare, yes. But comfortable. There was one bed, a queen, made up with fresh sheets and a new comforter in navy blue. John laughed to himself, remembering the day he'd finally gotten a chance to buy new linen for his own place, and how good it had felt to throw the old stuff in the dumpster. There was an overnight bag in the middle of Harold's bed. Two night stands on either side of it held a lamp and an alarm clock on each.

Seeing the two alarm clocks, he wondered if Harold happened to be unfortunate enough to have a roommate, of a sort. Not seeing any other evidence that someone else lived there, John kept his nerves in check and peeked into the closet. Nothing. The closet was completely empty. So... no roommate then. And it likely wasn't Harold's new place. Now John was confused. He went back to the kitchen, where Harold was just finishing up his grading.

"How did you find me?" John asked, sitting down across from him. 

"Your wedding ring. I eventually was able to track it again, and then it didn't take much digging to figure out who you were based on where you spent most of your time."

"Of course. And you are?"

"Professor Whistler. Don't ask what I teach. It's boring as hell. And the students hate it."

"But it's a safe identity?"

"It is."

Relief flooded John's veins. He didn't care what Harold taught. Academia was a safe enough profession: Most college students didn't try to kill their professors over bad grades. He hoped.

"Why am I here?"

"Because I brought you here."

"Then why here? Why this place?"

"It's safe from Samaritan's prying eyes. As long as we're careful when we approach the neighborhood, we're safe. There aren't very many cameras around here. I have them listed on a map. I can show you before we leave so you're better prepared for next time."

"Next time, Harold?"

"Yes. I... I miss you. I'm sick of being alone and having to grade these boring papers by students who don't actually care about the class, only that they pass it. And I probably will pass them all, just so I don't rock the boat too much."

"So this is... for us? This space?"

Harold nodded. "I'm sorry it's not up to my usual standards."

"You forget where I've been. This is the Ritz, by comparison."

Harold's eyes lightened up some, but it was clear he'd been worried for a long time. There were new lines in his forehead and around his mouth. Had he been worried about John? The Machine? Root? Shaw? He wouldn't ask about them. He knew Harold wouldn't tell him, even if he did know anything. John was just grateful to have a foothold where Harold was concerned. At the very least.

John reached across the table and plucked the red pen from Harold's grasp. Setting it aside, he leaned forward and ran his fingers lightly over Harold's, tiny lightning bolts zipping along his veins from the touch. He'd missed the complicated simpleness of their relationship. Harold shuddered. 

They met halfway across the floor, wrapping their arms around each other, John's hand brushing up into Harold's hair while his other braced his lower back, fingers splayed out for maximum reach. Here was the gentle warmth John had been missing for so long. The scent of Harold wafted up around him and he breathed in deep, letting his breath out slowly. Before he knew what was happening, tears had welled up in his eyes. He buried his face in Harold's shoulder and hoped he wouldn't notice while he blinked them away. John was supposed to be the tough one between the two of them, but he wasn't. He never had been.

Harold pulled away from him for a moment, sliding his hands down John's arms until they grasped his hands. He held on tight, his breathing uneven as he stared at the table. When he looked back up at John again, the relief and joy overflowing John's heart was mirrored in Harold's eyes. John's first kiss was tentative at first as he leaned down and pressed his lips to Harold's. A deep sigh had warm air rushing against John's mouth, and Harold was closing his eyes, deepening the kiss. John kissed him back, fervently, as his stomach filled with the anxious butterflies he only ever got with Harold. They settled quickly though, like tumblers in a lock, falling into place. John hadn't realized he was trembling until his body began to relax, muscle by muscle, Harold's presence, the only calming thing he'd ever really known. 

By the time neither of them could breathe, John was floating amongst the clouds. 

"We can't talk about, you know, the thing," Harold eventually said. "But I just needed to see you again. To see you in a safe environment that wasn't across the street where you couldn't see me, didn't know I was there, and where we couldn't talk."

"Wait... were you following me?"

"I did stop by the precinct once to ensure that you were who I thought you were. I mean, after all, anyone could have been John Riley. I had to make sure it was you. And it... well, let's not go there. No need. I was hoping you didn't have any dinner plans?"

"It what?" John touched Harold's chin, now curious about what he'd been about to say. 

"I missed you. That's all."

"Yeah?"

"I did, yes."

"What if I missed you too?" John took a step forward and placed a gentle kiss on Harold's lips. 

Oh, he'd missed this all right. Everything about Harold, from the way he dressed, to the way he kissed, to his high moral standards. No one else could compare to Harold.

The kiss lingered, slow and sweet, Harold wrapping his arms back around John, holding him there until they were both out of breath again. John couldn't complain. He caught his breath and kissed Harold again. And again. 

Bear nosed his way in between them with a whimper. 

"I guess it's time for dinner, huh, Bear?"

"What are we having?" John asked. 

"I thought I would make a lasagna. I have a recipe for a stove top variety that will not make more than we can handle. I don't know that we can do this very often. So, I've stocked the cupboards with non-perishables and cheap dinnerware I bought at the thrift store down the street, because I can't afford much. It feels so odd to have to say that. But it's true."

"That's all right. I was never in it for the money anyway."

Harold smiled at him. "So, I gathered."

They moved around the kitchen together, Harold grabbing the skillet while John began pulling the ingredients from the refrigerator and the cupboards as Harold listed them off. Plates appeared on the table, then food. Bear was fed. And when they sat down, John couldn't help but stare at Harold, his heart flip-flopping awkwardly in his chest. He'd nearly convinced himself he'd never see Harold again. 

Dinner was a quiet affair with Bear wriggling himself to fit under the table laying on both their feet. There wasn't anything that needed saying, nothing to ask. Regardless of the conversation, or lack thereof, there was no place John would rather have been. 

* * *

When the lasagna was gone and the dishes had been cleaned up and put away, both men retired to the living room couch, Harold sitting up prim and proper while trying to face John at the same time. 

"How's your shoulder wound?" John finally asked. 

"It still aches every now and then. I've got a cream to put on it when I need to, though I haven't needed it in a long time. Is this what you've had to go through?"

"Many times," John said with a small smile. "Where's your cream? I'll do you up, if you want?"

"I've gotten used to doing it myself. I..." Harold stared at a spot on the floor, unable or unwilling, to look John in the face. 

John rested a hand on Harold's thigh and gave it a squeeze before he stood up and left the room. He found the cream in Harold's overnight bag and when he'd returned to the livingroom, Harold already had his shirt off, though he still refused to look up at John's arrival. 

"I've missed your back rubs," he admitted.

"Do you want to go lay down for this?"

"Here's fine."

"Do Root and Shaw know about this place?" John asked in an attempt to get Harold's mind off of whatever was bothering him. 

He sat behind him and set his hands on Harold's bare shoulders, soaking in the familiarity of his skin, the bones and muscle underneath, and his warmth. There was a small mass of twisted scar tissue where the bullet had gone through, but otherwise, it looked like it had healed well. 

"No. I haven't spoken to them. I don't intend to. There's nothing we can do. And even if I do see them, I do not intend that they should know about this place. It's ours. That's it."

John left a kiss on the back of Harold's neck. "Thank you." He was calm and happy in Harold's presence, unlike how he'd begun to feel at work every day.

"Don't thank me yet, John. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you to pack anything, but I was hoping we might spend the night here."

"Anywhere with you is fine by me."

"We'll have to get up early though. We should leave before first light. It'll make it harder for Samaritan to see us should we get spotted by a camera."

John dug harder into Harold's shoulder blades, working the tight knots out, and perhaps his frustration at their situation. 

"Have we gotten any new numbers yet?"

"It's too dangerous."

"It was dangerous before."

"Things are different now."

"No one is helping all of those people. Someone should be out there righting the wrongs." This need was like a sharp pain in his gut, a reminder, that he was stuck doing nothing most of his days. His job was all paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. He needed to be doing something. He needed to be saving lives.

Harold turned to face John, placing a hand on his cheek. "I know. I want nothing more than to help them too. But we can't. We have these new personas that we have to stick to. Professor Whistler would not go hacking into banks to hunt down fugitives. Nor would he be caught breaking and entering. And your Detective Riley can't be seen to do any of those things either. If you get caught, that's it. Your job is gone. Your cover is blown. I need you... I need you to stick with it. For me. Because I can't risk anything terrible happening to you right now. Especially when I can't do anything to help you if something goes wrong."

John was stunned to see Harold's eyes welling up and spilling over. 

"Please," Harold begged.

Very carefully, he wiped Harold's tears away with the pads of his thumbs. 

"For you," he said. "I'll do my best. But the moment we can do something, you have to let me know."

"I will."

"This playing a straight laced cop is driving me up the wall. Fusco's already on my case about how I work and how I should respect the shield more. Which is funny coming from a guy like him."

"That's your handiwork, if you didn't notice." Harold smiled again. "I'm so proud of you, and everything you've ever accomplished. Annoyed as hell and a bit terrified over some of the more interesting scrapes you've gotten yourself into over the years. But over all, I'm very proud of you."

John pulled him in for another kiss, his heart beating a wild rhythm in his chest. 

* * *

The low-level tingling sensation in John's fingers and toes had returned. There was an itch in his chest; An ache. He was too keyed up. He hadn't slept much during the night, dozing now and then, but mostly enjoying his time with Harold beside him. Now, the early morning was upon them and they were packing up to leave each other and the safety this apartment represented. John was reminded that he was headed out into the world where he had to be on his best behavior and he wasn't sure how long it would last without Harold's gentle touch to keep him in line. 

John made them both eggs and toast for breakfast while Harold brewed his coffee and made his own tea. They'd eaten, then washed the dishes and put them away, wanting to spend as much time with each other as possible before they had to go. 

Harold reached up to place a hand on his cheek, then gave him a quick kiss. "I.T.A.L.Y.," he whispered into John's ear. 

"Always," John whispered to an empty apartment as the front door closed softly after Harold, Bear's nails clicking on the hardwood of the hallway. 

He slumped down into the nearest kitchen chair and stared at the worn linoleum for awhile, unsure if he could lead a normal life after this night. He'd been doing okay for awhile, though his calmness had started to fray at the edges. He was afraid spending time with Harold again only reminded him what he was missing and would make those edges fray even faster. How long could he hold out? 

With a heavy sigh he holstered his Glock, picked up the new set of keys Harold had given him over breakfast, and left the building. 


	21. Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold gets a call from The Machine, and realizes he can't ignore the Irrelevant Numbers anymore, especially this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this story came from a really wonderful piece of fan art I found on Pinterest, artist unknown. This also references my story "Mr. & Mr. Rinch".

Harold stepped out of Professor Whistler's apartment, after ordering Bear to stay and guard the place, and headed toward the bus stop at the corner. He was thinking about the irritating college department head who'd told him Bear couldn't accompany him at work, when the payphone in front of him began to ring. He stopped and stared at it, the only pedestrian on the sidewalk just then. It didn't stop ringing.

Reluctantly, he picked it up. "No. This is too dangerous," he began, but then The Machine's automated voice cut through to him and he took in the code it was telling him, the one he'd recently memorized. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. This couldn't be happening. 

He'd memorized this number for just this very reason, hoping he would never actually need it. Harold felt his knees starting to buckle and gripped the side of the telephone kiosk to hold himself upright, ignoring the hardened gum and graffiti. 

The Machine repeated the code again. And again. And it wasn't until the fourth or fifth time that Harold caught a second number in there. He jotted the code down on a piece of scrap paper from his pocket then used his phone to figure out what the number was. 

He tried to dial John's new phone, but it went straight to voicemail. He dialed Detective Fusco next. 

"Fusco."

"Where's John?"

"Well hello to you too, Sunshine. Haven't seen him."

"What do you mean you haven't seen him? Don't you work with him?"

"He went to pick up a murder witness who finally decided to testify and he hasn't come back yet. He should have been here several hours ago, but his phone's going straight to voicemail. I don't know what to tell you. You usually know where he is. Why don't you?"

Good question. Harold brought up the app that could track John's GPS wedding band, but he got no response. Either the ring was too far away in a remote location, or it had been destroyed. And Harold didn't want to think about the second option. 

"I need to find him as soon as possible," Harold noted the higher register of his voice. Worry was creeping in and there was no hiding it.

"You want me to pick you up? We can check out her place and see what's what."

"Yes, thank you. That would be helpful. What can you tell me about this social security number?" Not having the resources himself at the moment, he was going to have to let Fusco in on a little secret, and told him the number that he'd been given along with Detective John Riley's. 

"That's our witness, Lisa Sanderson. How'd you get her number?"

"None of your concern, Detective. I'll see you soon?" Harold gave him an address several blocks away.

"Yeah, sure." He detected a sour note, but Fusco would come pick him up and they would find John. He knew they would.   


* * *

When they arrived at Miss Sanderson's apartment, they found the door ajar, the jam in splinters. Inside, the place had been trashed: drawers opened, tables flipped, couch cushions tossed. But there was no sign of Miss Sanderson or John, just a small spatter of blood along one of the white walls. It had dripped onto the hardwood floor to form a small puddle. 

Harold's heart sank in misery and deep distress. He turned away from the worst of it, his shoulders hunched, knowing John was likely hurt somewhere and needing his help. 

"I'm gonna call this in," Fusco said, more to himself, as he pulled out his phone. 

Harold's own phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't recognize the phone number.

"Hello?" His heart pounded, hoping it would be John's voice on the other end telling him everything was fine. 

"Hello, Harold." Carl Elias. 

Harold didn't have time for his games just then, but he held his tongue in an effort to be civil. 

"I heard a rumor that your other half might have gotten himself lost. And I thought I should check in with you on the matter." 

Harold ground his teeth at the almost cheerful note in Elias' voice. "Yes, yes, I know."

"Your distress is clearly showing through. Do you need help finding him?" Elias's voice softened. 

Harold closed his eyes, a lump in his throat. "Yes, please," he choked out. "What do you know?" But Elias had already hung up. 

A text message popped up with an address and a note that said "My guy will meet you there." 

It wasn't until he'd put his phone away that he registered Elias' use of the term "other half" and wondered not only what he knew about John's current whereabouts, but what he might know about their relationship.

Fusco was staring at him, his own cell phone forgotten in his hand. "What's going on?"

"Elias knows where John is."

"Elias has something to do with this?"

"I don't... know. He heard a rumor. He's willing to help. We need to meet a guy at this address he sent. He'll help us find him."

"Why are you trusting him?"

"Who else can I trust, Detective? If he knows where John is, we need all the help we can get. He could be in danger."

"Right. Well, let's go then."

Back in the car, Harold vowed that if they did find John in time, he was going to find them a new base of operations and they would take up the numbers again. He would also call in Shaw, if it was possible not to endanger her cover identity. She wouldn't forgive him otherwise. But until then, she needed to remain safe, wherever and whoever she was. 

* * *

Harold recognized the man who met them at the address Elias had given him. It was his right hand man, the one with the scar on his face.

"We think he's in one of those shipping containers," he said, ignoring Fusco and pointing toward the many brightly colored boxes. "He was last seen with a woman and three other men. The men came back, but not him or the woman."

There were so many containers, Harold's heart pounded in fear and frustration at the sight. They would be too late for sure. He tried the GPS link on his phone for John's wedding ring again, but it still came up blank. 

"Thank you," Harold said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. "For all of your help. We appreciate it, Mr. Marconi."

Anthony Marconi stared at him for an extra second, his eyebrows lifted in surprise at the use of his name. With a quick nod of acknowledgement, he lead the way inside the gate. 

The late summer sun beat down on them, as they moved between the rows of colorful boxes. There was no shade except in the shadow of the taller stacks and Harold began to sweat, both from the heat, and from his wrecked nerves. If John had survived this far, whatever had happened to him, for sure he would die of heat exhaustion if he wasn't found in time. 

As Anthony lead them into the deep warren and began pounding on the doors of each box he passed, Harold realized he should have brought Bear to sniff out John's trail. There was no time to go back for the dog. 

"Hey! Buddy! You in there?" Fusco shouted at one box as he thumped on the door. When he got no response, he moved on to the next one and began again. 

Harold moved to another isle of shipping containers and began his own search, pounding on doors, shouting for John, pleading for him to hear his voice and respond. He walked and pounded until his bad back began to ache in the most unpleasant way, and he began to wonder about bruising on his hands. But he would keep going until John was found. There was no way he would give in, no matter how broken his body, no matter how much his joints complained. 

He didn't use his cane much, but by the time Anthony gave a shout, like Bear, he'd wished he'd brought it with him. He hobbled as fast as he could and made it to the container just as Fusco was cutting the lock off with a pair of bolt cutters. 

The door swung open and Harold could see John sitting down, a woman kneeling beside him, pressing a red shirt into his abdomen. Harold's relief was immediately tempered by the realization that John was shirtless, and that it was his once white button down, that was now bright red. Harold was screaming inside his head, horrified that John had been injured again. 

It was Fusco that stepped forward and helped John to his feet. The woman, Miss Sanderson, he presumed, stood up with him, keeping his shirt pressed to his abdomen. Her hair had been hastily thrown up into a messy bun, and the green skirt she wore now had splotches of red on it, though her blouse was still immaculately white. 

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Miss Sanderson said. 

"Thanks, Lionel," John rasped. 

"What the hell happened to you?" Fusco asked. 

"Long story." John grimaced. 

Harold, exhausted as he was, rushed to John's side, and took the wet shirt from the woman. He pulled it away to see a deep slice in John's skin, seeping blood, and pressed it back with added pressure, watching him wince. Sweat beaded on John's forehead and dripped down his face and chest. 

"Are you okay, Miss Sanderson?" Fusco asked next.

"They caught up with me," she said. "They were going to kill me, but Detective Riley saved my life."

It was only then that Harold noticed the darkening bruise on her cheek.

"Can we get you to testify now?" 

"Yes." She was angry, flashes of lighting in her eyes. "I decided to do it even before this. I just didn't get a chance to tell you. They've gone too far now and there's no going back. I have to do this."

As she spoke, Fusco looked at Harold with raised eyebrows. Yes, Harold had caught that line too, and wondered what it meant for John. 

"Great. Let's get him to a hospital on the way, then we'll head to the 8th and get started."

John shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. 

"What?"

"You take her," John said. "I'll go with Harold."

"I'm not your chauffeur." Anthony stepped back into the picture. 

He'd been so silent, Harold had forgotten he was still there.

"But since Elias asked me to help you, I can drive you somewhere just this once."

"Thank you," Harold said with sincerity. "Help me get him to the car, please."

Anthony reached out and John willingly placed an arm across his shoulders for support. He kept his other hand on Harold's shoulder, though he wasn't leaning heavily on him.

"You did good, Riley," Fusco called after them as they walked away. 

From the corner of his eye, Harold saw John smile for a brief moment before it faltered into a wince. 

"Just don't get blood all over my back seat," Anthony said as he got the door open and eased John into the car.   


* * *

John had long since fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, steadily, to Harold's immense relief. He sat up in bed beside him, wide awake, replaying everything John had told him while he stitched him up from the medical supply kit Anthony kept in his car. 

It had been planned that the shipping container was to be "lost" at sea within the next week. If John and Miss Sanderson hadn't died of heat exhaustion, dehydration or starvation first, they would surely have died by drowning. Harold shuddered at the thought. John's cell phone, wallet, wedding ring, weapon, anything that wasn't clothing, had already met with a watery fate. 

What really drew his attention, though, was the fact that The Machine had been the one to inform John of Miss Sanderson's imminent demise. John had purposefully lied to Detective Fusco to continue keeping The Machine a secret. They were trying to stay undercover, but it was going to be futile if his creation kept sending them numbers.

Harold soaked the washcloth he held in the shallow bowl of water and mopped the sweat off John's forehead. He'd just rebandaged John's knife wound, and even in sleep, he could tell John was still in great pain. 

He couldn't stay mad at either of them for their actions. The same thing had happened when Nathan worked the numbers alone, and Harold had picked up the mantel after his death, long before John or Dillinger had entered into the picture. Like Nathan and himself, John had only done what came natural to him. 

He'd told John, not that long ago, how proud of him he was, and he still was. John had come through so much darkness to land in the light with both feet firmly planted beneath him. He couldn't keep John hobbled forever. 

Remembering John's lost wedding ring, Harold pulled out his phone and found the website he'd ordered it from. It didn't take him long to find a matching replacement band. Before he put in a credit card number, he paused, and checked the price tag again. Professor Whistler didn't make nearly as much money as Harold Finch, or even Harold Wren. Where would the money come from for this expensive gift? Sighing, he backpedaled a few pages and changed his options before making his final purchase. 

* * *

Dawn was streaming in through the gauzy hotel curtains as John woke up, blinking in the brightness. He hissed at the pain in his abdomen as he shifted to lay on his side. His bandage was already bloody again and he winced at the idea of having to replace it. He'd wanted Shaw to look at it, but Harold insisted she still needed to stay away from them to remain safe. At least until he'd found a new place for them to work.

Harold lay beside him, sound asleep with the washcloth still in his hand, the bowl of water beside him on the bed, and nearby, his glasses. Harold must have stayed up long past his bedtime. He looked exhausted with worry lines crossing his forehead. 

John wished he didn't have to put Harold through all this. But as Harold had said since the beginning, their job was a dangerous one and it was only a matter of time before John was hurt again. Maybe even for good. 

Regardless, John was grateful to have Harold in his life. He was well aware he would have jumped on that cold rainy night years ago, if Carter hadn't brought some sense to him, and if Harold hadn't gotten to him the following morning. It was a combined effort on both their parts, even if they didn't realize it. Now, Harold, and everything he stood for, was John's purpose, his life.

He looked over Harold's shoulder again. Still sound asleep. John ran his fingers through Harold's hair, surprised when he noticed that Harold's tie was loose and had been pulled askew with the top few buttons on his shirt undone. Harold was never one for a loose shirt and tie, no matter how much the situation called for it. He also wore no suit jacket and his sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows. As silly as it sounded, he looked good like that. 

John placed a hand on Harold's arm, the weight of it enough to gently wake him. Harold turned his head as much as he could and squinted at John. 

"How..." his voice came out rough and tumble, as if he either hadn't spoken to anyone in ten years, or he'd spent the time drinking and smoking. Harold cleared his throat and began again, "How are you?"

"Better," John said. "Could use more pain killers though, if I'm honest. And you'll need to rebandage me. I apparently started bleeding again in the night."

Harold's face fell at the news.

"Sorry, hon. But the good news is, I'm pretty sure I'll survive. I think your stitches are holding up well. It's not much blood. Really."

Harold snorted. "That's not funny, John. I was worried about you last night. You were a bit feverish and I tried to stay up with you as long as I could. I guess I fell asleep at some point. I'm just relieved they didn't hit any organs."

Harold put his glasses back on and hauled himself up off the bed. He took the washcloth and the bowl to the bathroom. When he came back, John was saddened to see he'd straightened and tightened his tie again. 

"Harold, how long are we planning to stay here?"

"I don't know. If you're feeling up to it, we might leave after dark tonight and find you a new place to hide out until you're healed. Why?"

"Please take off the tie, and the vest. Hell, get rid of everything."

Harold's face grew bright pink. 

"Get comfortable. You need some proper sleep. I want to make sure that happens before we leave."

Harold pursed his lips. "You know, I think you're going to survive this after all."

"Yes, I think I will."

As Harold reached for the fresh bandages on the dresser there was a knock at the door. 

John sat up, wincing, as pain radiated from his gut up into his head and out to all of his fingers and toes. Where was his Glock when he needed it? Right. At the bottom of the Hudson. His supervisor was going to murder him for losing it. 

"Harold, let me-" 

He started to get up, but Harold was already at the door, peeking through the eye hole, and opening it. A package was passed through the narrow opening and then the door was closing behind him and he was returning to the bed. 

"This is for you," Harold said. 

"What is it?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

John took the minuscule box and began to unwrap the unassuming brown paper. Inside, there was a blue velvet box, and inside that, was a gold and silver striped wedding band, matching the one he'd lost. His heart stopped for a brief moment. 

"How did you-? When did you-?"

"Last night. I had it overnighted. Underneath the velvet holder you should find a replacement chain for it. I apologize. Professor Whistler couldn't afford the GPS unit with his somewhat limited salary."

John smiled. "Now I'm beginning to think you're trying to make an honest man of me, Harold. Do you have a date and a minster picked out or are we just going with a Justice of the Peace?" 

Harold blushed, his cheeks turning full on red. "Not quite. No. I just-"

John leaned over and placed a kiss to Harold's temple. "Thank you."   



	22. Double Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a bit introspective at the theater when another couple walks in.

Dinner and a movie had been Harold's idea this time. John was just surprised the women hadn't figured out their date nights yet. Or if they had, neither of them were talking about it, and he was grateful. 

He wasn't sure why, but he didn't really want to share this with anyone else. He rather liked that he and Harold were a thing, and no one else knew about it. He supposed it fit in with their secretive personas.

He felt better about things, now that they'd gone back to dealing with the numbers. He was more relaxed, less jittery and restless. True, he had to do it in addition to being Detective Riley for the NYPD, but so long as he could prevent more murders, it didn't matter. 

On their way to dinner, John had left his badge clipped to his belt where it was easy to flash it if he thought someone was about to start trouble with them. It would have been nice, however, not to have to avoid all of Samaritan's cameras in order to get to this particular revival theater. 

The house lights hadn't dimmed completely, but it was still rather dark. John figured if they did run into anyone they knew, they wouldn't be able to see each other very well for identification purposes. In fact, he was counting on it. So far there were only a few couples spread throughout the theater's plush seats. 

Sharp eyes met his in the gloom as two men came up the stairs to find a seat near the back, and John was startled to recognize Carl Elias and his right hand man, Scarface. 

So much for being invisible.

Scarface nodded his head at John in acknowledgment and, angling his head toward Elias, pointed to another pair of seats in the back row. Elias didn't even look in their direction and Harold didn't seem to notice them either. He was watching all the local ads playing on the screen, munching on their shared popcorn, while he learned which plumber to call in an emergency, and which cute boutique would net him the best wedding gifts for family and friends.

As John sat next to Harold, leaning on the arm rest between them, Harold absentmindedly fondled the sleeve of his brand new suit jacket between his fingertips. John admitted he felt a little funny about his suits these days as his coworkers tended to buy theirs at J.C. Penny's and Sears. Most of his came from Italy, and made to Harold's specifications. Not that Harold had any wild expectations or anything. He didn't. It was more the fact that they were expensive, were tailor made for him and the weapons he carried on a daily basis, came from Italy, from Harold's tailor specifically, and were paid for by Harold through an account he'd set up pre-Samaritan. Did this make him a made man? Probably. Of a sort, anyway. 

He glanced across the back of Harold's head toward Scarface and Elias and wondered if Elias chose Scarface's clothes. Then he wondered who's idea the movie night had been between them. Did Elias just want to see an old noir flick? Was Scarface there only as his bodyguard or was there something more between them? Was John reading too much into two men going to see a movie, since he and Harold had begun to do so themselves? 

John admitted, with a smile to himself, that whoever had a hand in making Scarface's suit had nothing on Harold and Harold's Italian tailor. So what if his suits made him a made man. He was more than happy to be Harold's made man. 

The lights went down and _Sunset Boulevard_ started up. John craned his neck around Harold again to see what Scarface and Elias were up to, but he couldn't see much in the fresh darkness.

Harold's fingers stopped fondling his sleeve and landed gently on his arm, arresting his attention. 

"Pay attention to the movie," Harold whispered. 

"Elias and..."

"His name's Mr. Marconi. And yes, I know they're here."

Of course he knew the man's name. 

"He reminds me a bit of you, actually. But your suits are much nicer." 

John heard the smile in Harold's voice. Had he been reading John's mind? 

"Did you plan for this?"

"I thought we were on a date," Harold said, with emphasis on the last word, as he shifted to land his head on John's shoulder. 

John smiled to himself, wrapped an arm around Harold and saw Scarface-Marconi, out of the corner of his eye. Now that he'd grown accustomed to the dark, he could see the man had placed his arm on the back of Elias's seat and if John wasn't mistaken, he was calmly, even absently, rubbing the back of Elias's neck with his thumb. Marconi glanced over at him and his white teeth shone in the darkness when he smiled. 

With a finger to his chin, Harold shifted John's gaze back to the screen as Gloria Swanson descended her grand staircase with grace and fervor. 


	23. The Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finds out about the apartment Harold and John call home on occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGIES!!!!! There was an issue with Chapter 19: "We Must Say Goodbye" awhile back and it double posted into Chapter 20, which I hadn't realized until now. Please go back and read Chapter 20: "Home", before you read this chapter, as this one will make more sense and will be more enjoyable, I hope. Sorry for any confusion this may have caused, but I do hope you like it! Thank you!

John felt like he was wasting precious time that he should have been spending beside Harold. While Harold was sound asleep in bed, John was standing at the livingroom window, checking the street for anyone who looked suspicious. 

Maybe he was restless because of a few recent run ins they'd had while dealing with numbers, where Harold's life had been in danger. Rescued in time, but still. Anytime Harold's life was at risk, the reverberations of it took a long time to leave John alone. And by that time, something else had happened to worry him all over again. So, pardon John for being extra vigilant late at night in a bad neighborhood. 

Several times he'd checked the new security alarms on the front door to the small apartment. No one had even attempted to enter. Everything was normal. Everything was calm. No one was remotely suspicious. John had taken it upon himself to do background checks on everyone in the apartment building and everyone checked out. Well, not that they were all saints. They certainly weren't. Not in this part of town. But those who were anything but saints were low level scum it didn't pay to bother with, except that they might break in to try to steal something valuable for money. 

John looked around the livingroom. Harold had done a great job of acquiring everything second hand, mostly through thrift shops. Nothing was new. Nothing was fancy. Not even the books. There wasn't a single thing here that was worth much. But then again, he remembered what it was like not to have anything at all. So for some people, this tiny apartment with its used furniture, might be a castle. 

John glanced out the window again, contemplating whether he was tired enough to go back to bed, when he saw it: A tiny movement just down the street, hidden in one of the doorways. It was someone who didn't appear homeless and who was planning on being there awhile, judging by the stance. 

John grabbed his binoculars from the bookshelf nearby and focused on the person. That body shape, the long brown hair, even the stance, were now recognizable. It could only be one person. John sighed. How had she found them? And why? What on earth could she be up to?

Loathe to lose sight of her, even for a moment, he went back into the dark bedroom to grab his cell phone off the night stand. Bear whimpered softly at him to return to bed. He put his hand out, let Bear sniff him, then rubbed his head. Harold was still asleep, his eyes closed tight, the sheets and blankets held tight under his arm. John wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, hold Harold, and wait for sleep to claim him. But he had a phone call to make. 

"John," she said in greeting when she picked up.

"Shaw. What are you doing?"

"Couldn't sleep, so I thought I would help play bodyguard for Harold. With all this shit that's going down with Decima, I don't want anything happening to him any more than you do. Though I do recognize you might have more of a stake in that than me."

John was silent, unsure what to say to that.

"It's cool, John. Don't worry about it."

"How do you even know where we are?"

"I know more than you think I do. Root though? She thinks she knows everything, but she doesn't know shit."

"And it better stay that way."

"Scout's honor."

"In the meantime, I'm going to have to tell Harold you know."

"Of course. I wouldn't expect any less."

They were both quiet for awhile. 

"Get some sleep, John. I've got this."

John waited a moment, unsure, and needing to be the one in charge of Harold's security.

Then he finally said, "Thanks, Shaw. You need anything out there before I go?"

"No. I'm fine."

John clicked off and followed her advice. Back in the bedroom, Bear was still sleeping at Harold's feet. Well, maybe not sleeping. John could see his eyes were open as he watched John return to bed and plug his phone back in again. In only a few hours it would be ringing a reminder that they had to go before sunrise. 

He rolled over to Harold, and slipped an arm around him. Harold murmured something unintelligible in his sleep and shifted back into John's arms. 

Shaw was outside keeping watch. They were safe. Harold was safe. 

It didn't take long for John to fall asleep after that.

* * *

The next morning, it was still dark out when John began frying up some eggs and bacon for breakfast. Harold came in and stopped just behind him, wrapping his arms around him, and peering around his shoulder at the frying pan. John smiled to himself, enjoying the moment. 

"Did you sleep okay?" Harold asked. "I thought I woke up for a moment and you were gone."

"I'm not really sure," John admitted. "Well, no. I was up for awhile, keeping an eye out the window."

"John..." Harold whispered his name, and rested his head on John's arm. 

"I do have something to tell you though."

"What?"

"Your secret apartment isn't so secret any more."

"What do you mean? Who knows?"

"Shaw. She's down the street, hiding out in a doorway, keeping watch on the neighborhood for you because she couldn't sleep either. Nothing happened. That I know of. But she kept an eye on things for us."

"Is she still there?"

"She was when I checked ten minutes ago."

"Might as well invite her up for breakfast then."

John dialed her number, his earpiece already in place. 

"Morning, John."

"Harold says you should come up for breakfast. Bacon and eggs okay?"

"I'm already there."

She clicked off.

"I'll go let her in and reset the security system," Harold said, departing from his perch on John's arm. 

When she arrived a few minutes later, John already had two plates of food on the table and was just bringing over Harold's Sencha green tea. He went back to the stove to fix more eggs for Shaw. 

"Oh, hell yeah. Coffee." Shaw poured herself a cup and nearly inhaled it. 

While John had been looking forward to a quiet breakfast with Harold, this was, oddly, normal... familial? Something. They were a team after all. And there would be other quiet breakfasts with Harold. 


	24. Broken Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold runs into Bear's original owner with disastrous consequences. This takes place over a long, unspecified amount of time, after the initial incident and involves a lot of angst and some hurt/comfort.

"Butcher?"

Harold glanced at the man approaching him on the sidewalk, and tightened his hand on Bear's leash. The man was huge, well-muscled, wearing khaki pants and a once-white t-shirt, now stained with bits of food and drink. His leather jacket was also stained. Harold thought he caught a whiff of motor oil. Mechanic, maybe? 

What Harold really didn't like, was the way the man was staring at Bear, so intent, as if he didn't see anything else. Not the smelly dumpster only a foot away and surely not Harold, on the other end of Bear's leash. 

Harold was about to direct Bear around the gentleman, when the man said, "Butcher, komen!"

Oh, this man spoke Dutch commands. Not good. Not good at all. Bear looked up at Harold, whimpered, and started walking toward the man. 

"Excuse me, but who are you?" Harold asked, holding Bear by his side. 

"Who are you?" The man finally looked at Harold. "That's my dog. I want him back."

Under the strong scent of motor oil came the thick scent of alcohol. Great. This was going to go well.

"Bear, zitten." Bear sat at Harold's command, and leaned into Harold's leg, whimpering softly. 

"Who the hell do you think you are?" The man took a menacing step toward Harold, his right hand closed into a fist at his side. "I want my dog back."

"I'm sorry, sir. But it was my understanding that you willingly gave up your dog to pay a debt you owed."

"Shut up. You don't know shit. Butcher, komen!"

Bear looked up at Harold, but didn't move. 

"His name isn't Butcher. And this is not your dog. Now, if you will please excuse me, we really must be going."

Harold didn't see the punch coming until it was too late. Pain blossomed behind his eyes and he tripped over his own feet, or maybe the leash, he wasn't sure which. There was a knee to his stomach, and he fell to the sidewalk, trying to keep his lunch down. He pulled his phone from his pocket, intent on calling John, when a heavy black work boot landed on it, and crunched down. Hard. 

Harold screamed, letting go of the leash with his other hand, in an attempt to do something... get the foot off, get the phone and call John? Neither one were possible as bits and pieces of glass and plastic were now embedded in his hand.

The boot came down again, stomping and grinding with pure menace. Harold screamed until he was hoarse, his eyes shut tight, unable to watch what was happening to him. 

He didn't hear the low, threatening growl Bear emitted, but he vaguely heard the man wailing in pain. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the man pull his leg free from Bear's jaw and dash away with a very noticeable bloody limp. 

Bear returned to Harold and smudged his glasses with licks to his face. But he couldn't tell Bear to stop. The pain in his hands was excruciating. It took awhile for Harold to gather up the strength to move himself. His crushed phone fell from his hand and he left it where it was, partly because it was useless now, but mostly because his hands were now useless as well. He used a brick wall as a support to help him sit up and take stock of his situation. 

He now regretted sticking to the shadow map. There were fewer pedestrians here and no cameras. The particular narrow street he was on held a few empty shops and old dumpsters. No one had any reason to be down this street, unless they were avoiding people and cameras as Harold had been. There was no way for anyone to find him. 

"John..." the name came out a whimper as he held his hands in his lap and tried not to pass out from the shock and horror of what had just happened.   


* * *

Harold wasn't sure how long he'd been on that narrow side street with the closed shops and the old rusted out dumpsters. A plastic grocery bag went skittering past in the sharp wind that had picked up as the sun faded from view. He'd seen no one since the initial ordeal. 

Well, that wasn't exactly true. A few times he'd seen someone pass by on the adjoining street, but they had been too far away for Harold's feeble voice to reach them, to call for help. 

Bear lay on the ground with him, curled up as close as he could, giving him warmth in the cool autumn air. Harold's glasses were crooked on his face from the punch he'd taken and he hadn't even been able to wipe them off from Bear's licks earlier, making his vision even more blurry. 

Bear was a good dog. Bear was staying by his side, not leaving him for anything right now. And yet, it was because of Bear, that Harold was even in this predicament in the first place. Even so, he was grateful for the dog. 

He'd always known, despite constantly telling John the dog was his, that John had gotten Bear for him, to help keep him safe. He hadn't been a fan of large dogs previously. But Bear was special. He didn't deny that and he couldn't help loving John that much more because of it. 

As the time slowly marched on, Harold let his mind wander, then tried to blank everything out. The pain wasn't going away. It wouldn't. And he couldn't look at his hands. He was frightened out of his mind. Would anyone find him? 

Bear shifted to rest his head on Harold's lap, close to his hands, but not close enough to hurt them further. As if he knew. 

Harold knew he should have been able to get up and walk away from this. But he couldn't. The pain was too all consuming. And he didn't know where to go or how to stay hidden from the cameras he desperately needed and desperately needed to stay away from. He couldn't hold Bear's leash. Not that he was worried. Bear would follow him without a problem. But if something happened, he couldn't hold Bear back. 

Instead, he cradled his hands in his lap, and kept his eyes on Bear, even as they blurred, and he felt the hot tears prick at his eyes and then run down his cheeks.   


* * *

It was pitch black out when the flashlight beam bounced down the street and shone over the nearby dumpster. 

Bear got to his feet, growling, his head low, ready to spring should the person attempt to harm Harold. 

A familiar voice called his name, "Bear?" 

Bear's tail began wagging, his tongue hanging out excitedly, welcoming the newcomer. But instead of giving John's searching hand a lick, he whimpered and returned to Harold's side. 

"Harold!" John rushed to him. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"My hands," Harold managed to croak. 

John shined the flashlight on them, gently handling one of them to get a better look. Harold yelped at the light touch and yanked his hand away. 

"Everything's going to be okay. We're going to get you out of here." Then, into his phone he said, "Shaw, bring the car around. I've got him. He needs medical attention ASAP."

Harold thought he heard a woman's voice in John's ear responding. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. Except that John was there with him, and that was all that really mattered. 

John handed his flashlight over to Bear with instructions in Dutch Harold didn't grasp and helped him to his feet. Jolts of pain lanced up Harold's arms and straight into his head. He heard a whimper, but wasn't sure if it had come from Bear or himself. 

"I'm sorry, Harold. I'm going to try not to jostle you too much, but I can't promise anything." 

John walked him to the end of the street where Harold thought he recognized his town car. Shaw got out and hurried to open the doors for them. Harold sat down carefully in the back and John sat beside him while Bear jumped into the front. 

"What happened?" she asked when she got back in the driver's seat and slammed her door shut. 

"His hands are swollen and purple. There's bits of glass... He's not talking much."

"Shit. He's probably in shock. We'll have to get him to the safe house."

Harold didn't remember the drive at all. His head was resting on John's shoulder, he thought, where he tried to keep his eyes closed against the bright street lights coming and going in the dark. Everything hurt his eyes. 

* * *

John had simply been busy with a case. That was the only excuse he had as to why he hadn't realized there'd been anything amiss with Harold until it was too late. He was grateful Harold wore his wedding ring on a chain around his neck so he could still track it. 

Regardless, he still felt guilty at the hours Harold had been left alone on the street without anyone to get him the help he needed, much less the comfort he could have used. 

After stopping for ice to help lower the swelling, and sneaking into the new, as of yet unopened, wing of the hospital to take some x-rays, pick out the glass, and put Harold's hands in splints, the three of them didn't get to the safe house until it was almost dawn. 

Harold was drugged to the point of near oblivion and John had ushered him quickly to bed where he promptly crashed and fell into a deep sleep.

"He's going to need months of physical therapy," Shaw said when they were alone in the livingroom. 

John nodded.

"We can't leave him alone. At least not for awhile, he won't be able to do much of anything on his own. He's going to need help."

"If you can take care of the numbers, I'll stay here with Harold. I'll find a way to work it out with the department."

"We can trade off," Shaw countered. "This is not going to be easy. For any of us."

John nodded again, ceding her the point. There weren't many people he would trust with Harold in his current condition. He trusted Shaw.

"I know a physical therapist that can help. I'll give him a call tomorrow and get some advice on where we go from here."

"Thanks, Shaw."

* * *

Harold had insisted that he and John be left alone for awhile upon waking up from his chemical dreams. It wasn't hard to figure out why. Even with John, Harold was embarrassed by the extent of the personal help he needed. The fewer people who saw that, the better. At least until Harold could get his metaphorical feet under him.

"I hate canned soup," Harold complained as he swallowed the spoonful of chicken and noodles John gave him. 

"You have no choice," John said. "It's what's for dinner."

"No. That's beef."

The really bad joke wasn't lost on John. He vaguely remembered the "Beef. It's what's for dinner." commercials from his time on leave from the Rangers years ago. If Harold was joking, that must be a good sign. 

Harold wasn't smiling. 

"Tomorrow we'll get Chinese takeout and I'll feed you with chopsticks." John tried to add a little flirt to his voice. 

"It's only romantic if you get romantic food. Like strawberries."

"I'll buy you strawberries then. Whole cases of strawberries. I'll even dip them in chocolate for you."

"It's not very romantic if you have to do this three times a day. Nor is anything else you need to help me with romantic. Nothing about this is romantic." Harold looked at the nightgown he was forced to wear for the time being, a deep frown crossing his face.

"Harold," John placed a hand gently on his arm. 

"No!" Harold shifted away. "I can't feed myself much less go to the bathroom without your help! I can't... I can't...!"

There were tears in Harold's eyes. 

John set the spoon back in the bowl and let Harold have his moment. He knew Harold didn't mean to act like a petulant child. Needing help to this extent wasn't easy for anyone, let alone someone as private as he was. 

When Harold took a deep breath and apologized, John said, "Whatever happens, I've got your back."

"Thank you."

* * *

"Oh my God, Harry! What happened?!" Root rushed into the safe house livingroom ahead of Shaw and threw her arms around Harold, even as he flinched away from her.   
When she stepped back, she looked down at the two splinted hands resting in his lap, still discolored from everything they'd been through, and shook her head. 

"Oh, Harry."

"I'm fine," Harold said, his voice tight. "Everything's okay."

"What can I do for you? Do you need me to stay with you? Help out around here? I can be a pretty good nurse, if that's what you need. Might even be better than the big lug here." Root jerked her thumb in John's direction with a chuckle.

"Please, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? John, why don't I let you get back home where I'm sure you'd rather be and you can help Shaw with the numbers. I can stay here and help Harry. Where's the spare bedroom? Is it this way?" Root started down the hall. "I'll help you pack up, John." 

John stepped in front of her as Shaw said, "Come on, Root, by now, I think we've got a pretty good system between the three of us. Besides, The Machine has need of you elsewhere. If you stay here, it will just hold up your progress... for whatever it is you've been doing."

"Oh, but for Harry, it's no big deal. John, you'd much rather head home, wouldn't you?"

Not wanting Root to realize the second bedroom had been unused since Shaw had taken up the numbers again, John stayed in her way. "We're fine, Root, just like Harold said. We've got this."

Root turned back to glance between Harold and Shaw. "Are you guys sure?" 

"Stop it!" Harold burst out. "Please. I'm happy you came to visit, I'm glad to see you, but please go away," he pleaded. "All of you. Leave me alone."

"Harry, let me help you," Root began again. 

John grabbed her by the arm and ushered her toward the front door before she could upset Harold further. He grabbed his phone and his copy of The Three Musketeers on the way.

As the three of them stepped out into the hallway, Root spun around to face him, her hair swinging around her shoulders, her eyes blazing. "You'd better take good care of him!" she said. "Or I swear..."

Keeping his voice calm and neutral, John said, "Root, you know I will. Now I need you to do me a favor."

"A favor?" Thrown for a loop, Root stared at him. 

"For Harold. He needs a microphone headset. So he can keep coding while his hands are healing."

"Oh! Yes, of course. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." 

"Is there anything else he needs me to pick up for him?"

"No. That should do it."

"Shaw, you let me know when you need me to help out."

"Sure thing."

Root patted Shaw on the cheek and dashed off down the stairs without another word. 

Shaw took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, that was fun."

"Yeah."

"Where are you going?" She nodded toward the phone and the paperback. 

"Going sit on the front stoop for a bit, get some fresh air. I won't stay out long, but if he needs me, he can call."  


* * *

Harold startled awake to a dark bedroom. Beside him, the other side of the bed was untouched. The clock on the nightstand read 2am. Where on earth was John? 

Then he remembered the smothered feeling he'd had the day before when Root had shown up and attempted to become his new live-in nurse. 

"John, I... I need to be alone tonight," he'd told John after dinner. 

Of course he'd seen the hurt in John's eyes and he hadn't exactly felt good kicking John out of the bed they'd been sharing, but he'd needed some space and hadn't taken back his words.

John hadn't said anything and after he'd helped Harold with his bathroom chores, he'd dutifully left him alone. 

It was disconcerting to see the other side of the bed so empty now that he'd gotten used to sharing a bed with John. Heart aching, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but his brain had switched on and thoughts were racing through his mind. He'd gone to bed without finishing the code he'd been working on earlier. He should finish it since he was already awake. He missed the story John was currently reading aloud when they went to bed and it didn't feel right that they'd not read the next chapter together. He was cold; his feet felt like ice; and John wasn't with him to help keep the bed warm. 

He pushed the covers back and got up, padding softly out of the room and down the hall to the spare bedroom. In the darkness he could see John was asleep on the edge of the bed facing the door, as if ready to spring up at a moment's notice. 

"John?" Harold whispered into the darkness.

John's eyes blinked open. "Harold?"

When Harold didn't move right away, John scooted into the middle of the bed and held the covers up in invitation. 

Harold shuffled forward, his heart clenched in agony. Seeing John reminded him that he shouldn't have pushed him away. He shouldn't have gone to bed angry, even though it wasn't a real anger. Frustration, maybe. It had been close. Still, he shouldn't have done it. He'd hurt John and nothing ever made that okay. 

Under the covers, he was enveloped in John's warm embrace, a light kiss landing on his forehead. 

"Get some sleep," John murmured.

With his thoughts finally calming down, Harold found it was easy to close his eyes and fall back asleep in the warmth of John's embrace.

* * *

"No." Harold hadn't even needed to think about his answer. "I'm fine staying here," he amended, as if realizing how his single harsh word might come across - had come across.

John squatted down so he could be eye-level with Harold sitting on the couch. "Please come for a walk with me. It would make Bear happy to have you join us too."

Harold looked away. 

John placed a hand on his knee. "We're just going around the block so Bear can go to the bathroom. We won't be gone long."

"I'm not dressed."

"I can help you."

Harold's face fell, his eyes closed. 

John's heart pounded. He needed Harold to say yes. He needed to get Harold out of the apartment for awhile before his severe agoraphobia set in. Never mind the fact that a little sunshine, fresh air, and a walk would do him some serious good in general. 

"I hate this nightgown," Harold finally said, his voice barely audible.

"Then let's get you out of it."

Harold sighed. "Please."

Coaxing each day brought them to a nightly walking routine just before they went to bed and eventually John didn't need to coax anymore and Harold stopped needing to loop his arm through John's. And while John celebrated Harold's new found independence, he did miss the close contact on their walks, though he wouldn't admit it out loud. 

* * *

It hadn't gone well at first. Harold was concentrating so hard his hands were trembling and his hands were trembling so hard that when he picked up his pawn and went to set it down two squares away, he ended up knocking over several other chess pieces in the process. 

Harold gasped and turned away from the board. 

Having only just begun their game, John set the pieces back at their starting points and patiently waited for Harold to try moving his pawn again. 

The second time his grip wasn't strong enough and the white piece went skittering across the board, knocking over two other pawns before sliding off the table and onto the floor. 

John picked it up and put it back. 

"I hate chess," Harold blurted. 

"It's something to keep us busy," John said, keeping his voice calm. 

"Maybe."

"Give it some time. Things will get easier."

"I'm sorry. This is just..."

John covered Harold's hand with his own. "It's okay. Just take your time."

Harold nodded and on his third attempt to move his first pawn, he succeeded in landing it in another square without disrupting the board. 

John grinned and thought he saw Harold's lips curl up at the corners for just a second.

Later in the game John regretted his choice to go easy on Harold. Harold's hand trembled as he reached for the white queen and, carefully hooking her crown between his thumb and forefinger, proceeded to capture John's second knight. John covered his face and groaned. 

"You're killing me here, Harold."

When he peeked up at Harold again, he saw a faint smile on his face, then watched as Harold slowly used both hands to replace the knight with the queen. It was a long and painful process, but it was good for Harold to use his hands more, and to keep his brain active. 

"If you're not careful, John, I'll catch your last Bishop next."

John groaned again, but inside, he was grinning. 

* * *

John had taken to writing everything down. When he entered the used bookstore several blocks away from the safe house, he brought out the list of all the books he knew Harold had read, always on the hunt for something different, as he poured over the shelves. 

He surprised himself when he realized he missed the library. It had been on his third visit to the bookstore, when he found himself taking longer on purpose, touching random spines, and needing to be surrounded by books. He also hadn't returned any of the books he'd purchased yet, telling himself it would be good to stock the safe house with them. Harold was clearly having an effect on him.

John smiled to himself and selected an extra large omnibus volume he'd been eyeing for a few weeks now. As a hardcover, it would cost a little more, but it wasn't on his list and he thought they both might enjoy it. 

That night, when they got into bed, John picked up the new tome from his nightstand. 

"What did you get?" Harold asked. "That looks huge."  
John grinned and opened the book up to the first page and began to read aloud, "In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army."

"Oh, it's Dr. John Watson," Harold said with reverence, a happy smile on his face. "I haven't read Sherlock Holmes in years. Thank you!"

John thought he was getting pretty good at picking out books Harold would like. 

* * *

  
John had never felt about anyone else the way he felt about Harold. He wasn't entirely sure why it was different. It just was. That said, he needed to get out of the stifling apartment for awhile. Shaw occasionally came over and spent some time with Harold while John went grocery shopping, or went to work. She would do physical therapy with Harold, ensuring that his fingers had healed properly and were working the way they should. 

Having recently been pulled onto a case with Root, they hadn't seen her in a few days, and John knew anything with Root could take awhile. Maybe even a week or more. 

Restless, he dressed in his casual best: sweat pants, t-shirt, and running shoes. 

"Where are you going?" Harold asked, looking up from his computer. 

"Out for a run. Is that okay with you? I'll leave Bear here."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose that will be all right."

John gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Great. I'll see you when I get back."

From the front stoop he began a slow jog until he made it to a nearby park, where he stopped to stretch his muscles. At the basketball court a pickup game was just getting started. John jogged past, noting the players on both teams seemed pretty good. 

The fresh air felt good in his lungs and he took several deep, rejuvenating breaths. The sunshine warmed him, and his spirits began to lift. Harold still needed so much from him, but their shared frustration wasn't anyone's fault. John worked on letting it go, as his feet pounded the pavement in an easy lope. 

He felt free, like he could keep on jogging forever and leave everything behind him. Harold had let him go once. He would do it again, John knew. But the truth was, there had never really been an option to leave, no matter how much he might have wanted it, or how much Harold thought he should have his freedom. Their fates were intertwined now, and John would always return to Harold. 

At the same time, that invisible string that kept him tethered to Harold's side, was what gave him his freedom; freedom from his troubled past and the darkness that had nearly swallowed him whole; freedom to do good in the world and save lives. 

He passed a fruit stand and was quick to pick up an escapee apple an older woman in a purple dress had been attempting to fit into her grocery bag. He handed it back to her, and before she could even thank him, he'd jogged off. 

He stopped to stretch in the park again on his way back, his muscles warm and tingly in a comforting sort of way. 

"Come on, man, we can't play with uneven teams!" John heard a voice from the basketball court call out. 

He looked up just as a guy in shorts and a white t-shirt was taking his keys from his pocket. "Sorry, gotta get to work!"

John headed over. "You need another player?" he asked. 

"Can you play?"

"Sure." 

Someone tossed John the ball, and he moved into the game. He'd been pleasantly buzzed after his run. Now he needed something to really tire him out. 

* * *

Harold's murmuring became John's steady background noise while he read books, cooked, did extra research for Shaw, or cleaned his small cache of weapons and the apartment. Never before had any of his temporary living spaces been so spotless. 

John was both horrified and in awe of Harold's verbal coding skills. Once he'd had some practice, he rarely stumbled. Harold wrote programs to search for specific data on their numbers and programs to hack into top secret places to hunt for more information and the speed with which he accomplished it all was mind blowing. He could rattle off code like it was his first language and he would perhaps conduct whole conversations in it if he had someone who also spoke the language. John wished he could be that person. 

But more than that, John was grateful to be hearing Harold's voice again on a regular basis. He'd begun to hate the silences that engulfed the apartment. His voice had been a comforting sound in his ear while on missions in the past and it was comforting now too. 

Until it wasn't. 

Harold coughed once. Then twice. He sounded a bit scratchy, but he carried doggedly on, in a rush to find Shaw the information she needed. 

Later in the day, John noticed Harold was repeating lines of code with heavy emphasis and frustration. John moved to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Harold stopped talking to look up at him.

"You need a break. Why don't you join me on the couch and we'll read the next Sherlock Holmes story?"

When Harold tried to protest, his voice cracked and ran dry. 

"That's it," John said with a smile. "Come on." 

On the couch, Harold rested his head on John's shoulder, without a word. John wasn't about to tell him he worked too hard, but somehow, he was going to have to get Harold into other hobbies that could take up his time and let his voice heal and get used to being used more. 

John picked up the tome and began to read aloud, "The Five Orange Pips. When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years '82 and 90', I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave." 

He hadn't yet gotten to solve the mystery of the five orange pips when Harold started snoring softly into his ear. Smiling to himself, John closed the book, and let his own eyes follow Harold's into a light afternoon nap, with Bear curled up at their feet. 

* * *

John was careful around Harold's knuckles, slowly working the cream into his skin, massaging the muscles back to life and loosening everything up. There was a classical album on the record player, some ballet or other that Harold was most likely picturing in his mind while his eyes were closed. 

In his own mind, John was remembering Harold holding a pencil in his right hand, fingers in the correct positions, as he carefully wrote out the alphabet on a piece of paper. Where last week had had Harold practicing just holding a pencil, now he was writing. Progress was being made and John was ever so proud of Harold for his hard won success. 

* * *

John watched as Harold picked up the little shells from the pocket on his side of the mancala board with one hand. He missed only two. John was smiling at how far he'd come, when Harold glanced up at him with a smile of his own.

"My mancala skills might be a little rusty, John, but I assure you, you're going down."

John waved his hand over the board, indicating that he should go ahead and make his move. 

Slowly and carefully, Harold placed each shell in their respective reservoirs until the last one had been deposited in his cache. He just might beat John at this game too, what with his new found skills. 

* * *

It felt good to be back in the subway. Sure the safe house had been more comfortable, but it had also been suffocating, the longer Harold had stayed cooped up inside. Getting back to seriously saving the numbers felt good too. John had dropped him off at the station early in the morning on his way to the precinct and the moment Harold needed him, he would be there to take the call. 

Harold would go back to teaching at the university later in the afternoon. He was only grateful he didn't have friends among the coworkers he rarely saw, and few people would question his sick leave absence. 

Everything was returning to normal. 

But this was also a slightly new normal. His new headset allowed him to continue to code, even when he got up to pace, or to look something up in a book. As long as he could keep talking, he could keep coding. And if his voice ran out, his fingers could take over for awhile. He couldn't type for hours on end like he'd been doing for years, but he would manage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All quotes from The Complete Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of course, do not belong to me.


	25. To See the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John plans a surprise motorcycle trip just for Harold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This references the episode "Shadow Box" (S02E10), where the following conversation inspired this story:  
> "Leaving a nice GPS trail. Well done, Finch." - John  
> "Especially on the back of a speeding motorcycle, which was EXHILARATING, by the way. I might have to get myself one." - Harold

Harold picked up the pile of papers he'd just finished grading as the text came in, "Leave Bear with Shaw. Meet me at home tonight. 7pm. Dress warm and comfortable." 

He wondered what John had up his sleeve. Dress warm? Comfortable? What exactly did that even mean? 

"No suit," Came the reply to Harold's thoughts as if John had been reading them straight from his mind. "Tough boots, durable pants."

Harold was annoyed that he was going to class now, and likely wouldn't be able to concentrate. He would have to speak to John about that, but John would likely just smile at him and do it again at a later date. 

Was this what it truly felt like to have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, he supposed? Well, there had been Grace... but she was different. He snorted. No one was like Grace. And for that matter, no one was like John either. Then a vague recollection came to him of a time when he'd been distracted at work over thoughts of Grace and whether or not he should pop the question. 

"I.T.A.L.Y.," John texted. "Now go to class."

Harold smiled, his body growing pleasantly warm on the inside, and stepped out of his office. 

* * *

When Harold got to the apartment building they called home on occasion, John was already there, his motorcycle parked just down the block in an especially dark area. But when he took a second look, he realized it wasn't John's Triumph Street Triple 675. This one was a larger bike built for two. So he must not have arrived yet. Even so, Harold's heartbeat sped up as he slowly made his way up the stairs to their front door. 

Once out of the office he'd stopped at Professor Whistler's apartment to change his clothes. He now donned thicker trousers, a pair of black boots, a waffle weave Henley shirt, and a green sweater he usually saved for those extra cold winter days when he stayed home with a cup of tea and a good book. It felt odd to be out in public in something that wasn't his usual suit and tie. He did his best to ignore the feeling, instead, wondering about John's plans. 

When he opened the door, he was met with John waiting for him at the kitchen table, a cloth grocery bag beside him as well as two motorcycle helmets. He was wearing jeans, his black boots, and a black leather jacket. 

Harold paused, unsure how to take it all in and what it meant. "John?"

"Harold."

"What's...?"

"You once told me riding on the back of a motorcycle was exhilarating, though I was a bit jealous at the time that it was some other guy's machine. So I thought I would take you for a ride and we could have some fun tonight."

Harold's eyes grew wide. He remembered that night, when he'd ridden on the back of Shayn Colman's motorcycle. Sure he'd nearly felt like he was going to fall off, but the wind whipping past him had been amazing! And maybe part of the thrill was that he could have easily fallen off. Which, when he stopped to think about it, was terrifying.

"You're grinning," John commented with a grin of his own. 

And yes, despite the terror of falling off a bike in motion, Harold was still smiling. 

"This was definitely not what I was expecting," he finally said. "But I think I like it. I assume that's your bike out there, then?"

"Well, no. I rented it all legal like, just for you. I want you to be safe and comfortable."

John plucked a black leather jacket off the back of a chair and handed it to Harold. "You'll want to wear this. I hope it fits."

Harold shrugged into it with John's help. It felt like a stiff hug from him that he imagined would only get more relaxed the more he wore it. Next he was handed a pair of matching gloves. 

"Here, your helmet. There's a built-in bluetooth microphone and headphones so we can talk while we ride if you want."

Harold was getting more excited the more John talked. If he'd been a young school girl, he would have been bouncing on his toes and clapping his hands together while squeeing at the top of his lungs. Alas, he was left with grinning, and gripping the huge helmet John handed him, until his knuckles were white. 

"Where are we going?" he asked. 

"That's a surprise."

"A surprise?" Harold asked, eyebrow arched, voice dry. 

"Yes. Are you ready to go?"

"What's in the bag?"

"What's with the twenty questions? It's a surprise. I can't tell you anything or I'll ruin it."

"Of course. Shall we go then?" 

Once they'd gone over the safety precautions and had mounted the bike, John said, "Don't think, Harold. Don't think about the end destination. Don't think about the direction we're going in. It's not important. Just enjoy the ride. Okay?"

Harold was smiling inside his helmet. "Okay." Sitting right up behind John, he placed his hands on John's waist to hold on, enjoying the feel of his strength. 

John started the engine and they were off. Harold found himself giggling a bit, as the wind whipped past them. He almost wanted to let go and see how the wind would feel on his hands, but he didn't dare. He had to admit, he was a tiny bit afraid of falling off and disappointing John, who was going to great lengths to keep him safe on this ride. He made sure, every now and then, to relax and flex his fingers, to keep them from getting too stiff as they still caused him minor problems on occasion. 

John wove in and out of traffic so smoothly, Harold was grinning with the amazingness of it all. This was not something one could do in a town car, and he loved it. 

Soon they had left the city limits behind and were out on the open road. He thought he saw Amtrak zipping along in the distance for a brief moment, the train's car windows lit up in the darkness. He found the sight comforting, knowing there were other people out there in the night, traveling from one place to another, just like them. 

He clung tighter to John, the further away from home they went, just wanting to be close, closer, as close as he could get without crawling inside him.

"You okay?" John asked. They hadn't spoken for awhile, and the sound of his voice was a bit startling in his ear. 

Harold squeezed him in a tight hug for a moment. "Perfect," was the only thing Harold could say, his heart racing with the wind. 

John laughed. "Well, don't squeeze too hard, you'll squeeze the breath out of me and then we'll be in trouble."

They continued on for a long while in companionable silence, Harold listening to John's breathing, his helmet doing a good job of canceling most of the noise around them, including the roar of the motorcycle's engine. 

Harold really had no words for this experience. He never wanted it to end. He wanted the fuel to last forever, for the two of them to just keep going, riding off into the sunset, so to speak, somewhere safe. No, not somewhere else. This bike, with John, this felt safe. This felt like the safest thing Harold had experienced in recent years. Just the two of them, a bike, and the open road.

New York was a beautiful state, even in the darkness. Most people didn't understand that the entire state wasn't made up of one giant city. But it was farm land, and small towns, and beautiful valleys and mountains. There was a lot to the great state of New York and getting to see it on the back of a motorcycle was truly exhilarating. Even more so than Harold's first ride through the city streets.

They left the major highway, and switched to what Harold thought might have been the Taconic State Parkway, though he couldn't be entirely sure as they flew by the road signs in the dark. They took long, winding roads and narrow one lane roads in need of repair. They flew through small cities and sleepy little towns all shuttered for the night. All the while, Harold held tight to John and didn't even try to stop grinning as his heart overflowed with the emotions of the experience. 

Eventually John slowed the bike and turned down a narrower dirt road for a long while, pine trees going past at a much more sedate pace now. 

Harold wanted to ask where they were going again. But he didn't because John had said not to and he didn't want to ruin John's surprise. 

When they eventually came to a stop, they were on the edge of a wide field of grass. 

"Balance on my arm, until you get your legs back," John instructed him when he wobbled his way off the bike. 

Harold didn't know how long they'd been riding, but he had a feeling they were a very long way from home. When he got his legs under him, he let go of John's arm to take his helmet off, and John joined him, pulling the cloth grocery bag from the side compartment of the bike. 

From another compartment John pulled out a couple of warm fleece blankets. One of which was spread on the ground at the foot of a rock with a flat face on one side, perfect for leaning against, Harold surmised. He then emptied the grocery bag onto the blanket, and Harold saw two thermoses and what appeared to be a cookie tin. 

"John?" 

"Come." John held out his hand for Harold, tugged him over, and helped him sit down. 

He opened the cookie tin and Harold was surprised to find chocolate chip cookies inside. The smell wafted out to greet him and he hummed in appreciation. 

"These are homemade as of this afternoon," John said. 

"You made these?"

"Took the day off to prepare everything and bake. Yes."

The image of John with his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stirring chocolate chips into cookie dough made Harold smile. He wished he'd been there to see it in person. 

"And the thermos?"

"Open it and find out," John said with a bit of a sparkle in his eyes. 

Hot chocolate. John had brought him hot chocolate. And best of all, it had survived the long trip and was still steaming. Harold looked up at John, leaned over, and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, John. This is amazing."

"I'd hoped so. I wanted to get out of the city to a place that was peaceful, where we could see the stars, and maybe even watch the sun rise together. We don't have to worry about anyone seeing us out here. And there's a diner not too far away that does a mean breakfast when we're ready to go."

"What time is it?" Harold asked. 

"Does it matter?"

"No. Of course not."

John brought out a bottle of hand cream. "How are your hands?" 

"I wouldn't say no to a massage, but they're doing okay." Harold held out a hand and watched as John began to massage the cream into it. 

He hadn't realized just how stiff they actually were after holding on to John for as long as he had. John's fingers felt good digging into his muscles and gently probing his knuckles to loosen everything up again. Harold let out a sigh and held up his other hand when John was ready for it. 

When he was done, John pulled the second blanket over them to help keep them warm in the cool night air, and together, they sat side by side, drinking hot chocolate, eating chocolate chip cookies, and staring up at the stars. Honestly, there was nothing more Harold would rather have done. 

He made a wish on a falling star that wherever Grace was, everything was working out in her favor. Then he made a second wish for John, that John would be happy in his life, no matter what happened after this. He leaned against John's arm, adjusted himself so he could rest his head against John's shoulder without causing too much pain to his spine, and nearly fell asleep in the peaceful atmosphere, with the sound of crickets and the occasional owl nearby. 

This was perfect. Absolutely perfect. 

* * *

When dawn came, they packed everything up and headed into town to the diner where they enjoyed a wonderful breakfast of bacon and eggs, cooked just the way Harold liked them. He and John didn't say much over breakfast just like they hadn't said much over the long night. They didn't need to. Just being with each other had been enough. To have peace together without anyone being in immediate danger was the best gift they could have received. 

Harold dutifully kept his questions to himself, realizing that John had been right. It didn't matter where they'd been. It was the experience that mattered. It didn't even matter how John had found that wonderful spot on the map. None of it mattered. 

And as they got back on the rented bike for two, and started off back to the big city, Harold somehow knew, that while he was already yearning to do this again, they would never make this trip a second time. This was it. They would find their little moments of peace at home, in their tiny shared apartment in a bad neighborhood, whenever they could get the chance to be together. And it would have to be enough. 

But that wasn't the only peace they would find in the city. Saving lives brought a kind of peace at times: keeping families together, and finding ways to bring criminals to justice. In their own way, they were bringing peace to others, and the work would never end. 


	26. Sunburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold must deal with the unpleasant consequences of a stakeout in the sun.

Harold groaned. How had he been so stupid? Or maybe forgetful was the more appropriate word. He should know by now that a number could lead them into any type of situation. The beach was a first, but it did sort of make sense, once he'd researched the number a little more. 

"Harold, get your shirt off," John ordered. "The back of your neck is so red you look like a lobster."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese, for the blinding compliment. I feel so good about myself right now."

John smiled at him, and ran a finger under his chin that made him shiver. "If you let me, I can help you feel better. But only if you'll let me."

Harold sighed. John did have a point. Carefully, he unbuttoned his vest and shirt and undressed with a little bit of help from John. 

John hissed when he saw Harold's back. "You're redder than a lobster, this looks particularly nasty. Why don't you go lay down and I'll get the aloe."

He did as he was told, hugging his pillow beneath his head. 

John returned and sat on the edge of the bed beside him, coating his fingers in the green gel. "I'll try to be gentle," he murmured. "But I can't promise this won't hurt at all."

"There's nothing else to be done." Harold didn't like being anything less than self-sufficient, and while he wouldn't admit it out loud, John was the one person in the world he trusted to get this close; close enough to see his infirmities and insecurities.

John's fingers barely touched Harold's back and he jumped with a gasp. 

"Calm," John said, keeping his fingers where they were, the cool gel stinging for a second or two as it hit Harold's overheated skin. 

Harold took in several deep breaths, and let them out slowly. As he concentrated on his breathing, John's fingers slowly made their way onto his back, and began spreading the gel around. 

He whimpered. It felt good even as it hurt. All he could think was Thank God for John in my life.

"You really should have let me put the sun screen on you," John admonished.

"Don't remind me. Ow!" 

"Now I'll get to rub your back 2-3 times a day instead of the once." 

Harold was sure he'd heard a smile in John's voice. "That's not funny, John."

"Did I say it was funny?"

"I'm never going on a stakeout on a beach with you ever again," Harold grumbled.

"Maybe next time we won't be watching a number and we can be better prepared, bring a picnic lunch. We might even enjoy ourselves a little."

"Next time?"

"Why not?"

Yes, why not, indeed? 

When Harold's neck, back, and shoulders were well coated with aloe, John helped him to sit up and placed a small kiss to his lips. "I.T.A.L.Y." he said. "I was just glad to have your company. Thank you for joining me, even if it did result in a bad sunburn. I appreciate your sacrifice."

Harold snorted, leaned in, and kissed him back. "Thank you for taking pity on me and slathering me in aloe, even when I was the stupid one."

"I refuse to believe that. I insist that you planned this for the maximum number of back rubs you could get out of me." John leaned in close and whispered, "but I'm not complaining. Not one bit." 


	27. Anthony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl has suffered a loss unlike anything he's ever known before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post "The Devil You Know" (S04E09). This contains Carl/Anthony & Harold/John.

Carl was alone. He'd told everyone to go away. He needed time to think about what had happened. On the outside, he was solid. He was doing well and no one could tell that on the inside he was breaking up, and completely falling apart. He could never let that show. 

He sat on his couch, his head in his hands, not having eaten anything for hours. Or maybe it had turned into days? He wasn't sure of anything anymore. His stomach was rumbling but it didn't matter. Not right now. And not for awhile. 

Maybe in the morning he would go down to his favorite diner and get a good breakfast. But right now, he was going to let his hunger consume him because it was the only way he could feel anything. 

There was a soft knock on the door. Before he could yell at the person to go away, the door was opening, and Anthony was poking his head inside. 

"You okay, boss?"

"I..." Carl shut his mouth.

Anthony stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, taking care to lock it. When he approached Carl, he leaned down and placed a cold kiss to his cheek. 

Carl pulled away and stared up at him. 

"The weather's gone rotten," Anthony commented, as if that would explain his cold lips. He sat down beside Carl, jostling the throw pillows. "But don't worry, Gino's been taken care of."   


* * *

Carl jerked awake, his head aching. He'd fallen asleep on the couch and a carefully balanced throw pillow had fallen on his face. Why hadn't Anthony woken him up and taken him to bed? Was he still out handling the situation with Gino?

His phone was ringing. He glanced at the clock: Two-thirty in the morning. 

"Hello?" he answered, voice rough. 

"Elias, I'm very sorry to bother you at such a late hour." Carl recognized Harold's voice. "But there was something on my mind that couldn't wait."

"Yes, Harold? What is it?"

"I find I must apologize for what happened to Anthony."

Carl closed his eyes as images flooded his memory. He'd only been dreaming after all.

"You've already done that, Harold."

"No. You misunderstand me. I... When you ran back inside after Anthony, I wasn't thinking clearly in that moment... I..."

Carl sat up, paying close attention. It wasn't like his chess partner to struggle with his words in this manner. 

"I didn't put myself in your shoes. And when I did... I realized I would have done the same thing, if it had been John."

There was a lengthy pause while Carl took all of this in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinking into the gloom of his temporary apartment. 

"You had no other choice yesterday, and I didn't see that," Harold continued. "Didn't respect your decision, as I should have. I'm sorry."

What was there to say to that? The pain was still too raw, too much an open, bloody, infected wound that would require more than stitches to keep it closed and let it heal. 

"Thank you, Harold." Carl hung up then, not waiting for a reply; Not requiring one; Not wanting one. 

He was alone. Anthony hadn't been sitting beside him having just dealt with the traitor. Anthony would never again sit beside him; Would never again save his life; Would never again sleep beside him. 

And Carl hadn't gotten the chance to tell him how much he loved him one last time. 

"Don't worry, boss," said a familiar voice, soft, beside his ear. "I know."

* * *

Harold swallowed hard, composing himself, before returning his cell phone to it's charging station beside John's. He went back to bed, grateful he and John had decided to spend the night together in their tiny apartment. Beneath the covers, he slipped his arm over John's chest and rested his head against John's shoulder. John's breathing was slow and even, his heart pumping in a regular rhythm, fast asleep. His scent was clean, warm, and dry, smelling of his usual ocean breeze shampoo and bodywash. 

Harold took the moment to be grateful John was still with him. He'd told John in the beginning they would most certainly wind up dead. Since then there had been many times when that could have come true. But it hadn't. Not yet. Harold thought of Anthony. He'd been so stupid not to realize what had been going through Elias' head the day before. 

He gave John's chest a squeeze, breathed in the scent of him, and closed his eyes, content to lay there with him the entire night, even if he didn't fall asleep. 


	28. Blind Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a mysterious invite to a fancy restaurant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This also references the couple's retreat from my other story, "Mr. & Mr. Rinch".

Root handed John a post card. 

"What's this?" John took it, dubiously. Whatever it was she wanted from him now, he wasn't sure he was going to like it. He almost never liked her plans, even if they did sometimes work out. It was all about trust and she'd ruined any chance of him trusting her completely the day she kidnapped Harold and tortured and killed others in front of him. 

He kept his expression neutral so as not to show his real feelings, though he wouldn't be surprised if she'd known anyway.

"It's a paid dinner reservation," Root declared. "Though I can't tell you more than that." As she spoke, she wore her characteristic smirk and John just knew she was up to something. It bothered him that he couldn't determine what it was.

When she'd gone, he read the post card to see that the reservation was for 7pm at a small restaurant called Victoria's. He'd only been there once before. The food was fantastic, the service good, though it was too pricey and formal for his taste, and his current salary. The reservation was under the name of Thornhill. Did that mean The Machine had something to do with this? If it was The Machine needing him to be somewhere, he'd be there. 

* * *

He arrived at the restaurant dressed appropriately in a tux, and feeling vaguely silly, as he was still unsure what he was getting himself into. He was mildly surprised when the hostess showed him to a table and he found Harold, similarly dressed, already sitting there. The table was adorned with a single red rose in a narrow vase off to the side and a candle in the middle. 

"Harold."

"John? What are you doing here?"

John took the seat opposite Harold.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Root handed me a post card with the reservation details on it but said she couldn't tell me anything more."

"The same thing happened to me this afternoon when I ran into her on the street."

"She was smirking when she handed it to me. What do you think that means?"

"The reservation was under Thornhill."

"Harold, you know The Machine wouldn't do this. Would it? Are we being set up on a date? Or are we supposed to be at work?"

"I wish I knew."

"If it's a date..."

"Then she knows."

"Shaw promised she wouldn't tell her we were sharing a place and The Machine wouldn't tell her anything."

"Then what about Thornhill?"

"That was clearly a ploy to get us here."

"Then she figured it out on her own."

John shuddered. The last thing he wanted was for Root to know they had a relationship. He wasn't exactly sure why. It wasn't like it was a big deal, but he had a feeling it was because of how she would react around them: the words she would use, the teasing, and the teasing wouldn't be good natured, not from her, because she didn't like John even though she adored Harold. He didn't want things between them to be any worse than they already were. 

The waiter came to take their orders. 

"We might as well enjoy ourselves until we figure out why exactly we're here," Harold suggested. 

And what could John say to that? He just hoped they weren't unknowingly walking into a job for The Machine. Granted, he loved his job. He wouldn't change that for the world, and he would gladly put his dinner down to save someone if they needed saving. But, every once and awhile, it was nice to be able to relax with Harold.

While they waited for their dinner to arrive, John surveyed the room, and critically examined each person from the customers to the wait staff and even the bus boy. It was no secret this place was meant for those with money. Every customer dripped with it, from their clothes to their accessories, to the way they held themselves. 

He saw a large dinner party in the corner, with a good portion of the couples appearing quite sloshed. One man in the group leaned over toward a woman sitting on his right to whisper into her ear conspiratorially. She whispered back and then they were laughing. The woman on the man's other side slapped him on the upper arm to get his attention. The look she gave him was one of anger and loathing. His eyes widened in surprise but the other woman only laughed harder. 

The waiter arrived at John and Harold's table with their dinner, taking John's attention away from the rest of the room for a moment. 

When the waiter had left, Harold said, "Which one do you think could be our next number?" 

"That one woman from the large group in the corner," John said without hesitation. "She looks about ready to murder someone, though I'm not sure whether she wants to murder her husband or the younger woman he keeps talking to."

"Oh dear," was Harold's quiet reply. "I see what you mean." He picked up his utensils and got to work cutting off a bite of stake. "Well, we may be here for a number after all, but I am certainly not going to let this wonderful food go to waste. You shouldn't either."

They enjoyed their meal, for once talking about things other than work. The conversation flowed easily and lightly. They agreed on some things, disagreed on others, and agreed to disagree more than once. All the while John kept an eye on the possible numbers in the corner. 

When the dessert came, it was presented with an envelope adorned with their names on it. Here goes, John thought. Now they would get instructions related to the number or something to do with Samaritan.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the large group get up and leave. "Is that our number? Shouldn't we be following them?"

Harold had slit the envelope open, and pulled out a three fold piece of paper. Something fell out of the envelope and he caught it before it could fall to the floor. His cheeks went pink once he got a good look at it. 

"What is it?" John asked. "A metro card?"

Harold handed the item over without a word and John got a good look at it. A hotel room key. This could either be very embarrassing, or it might mean that the group of diners were planning to take the room next door and needed some surveillance. 

He watched as Harold scanned the letter that went with it, his cheeks growing ever pinker. He handed the letter over to John, again without a word, and let John read it on his own.   
  
_Dear Harold and John,_

_I've been watching you dance around each other for months now. The Machine won't tell me anything, but I can see the romantic tension between you, even though I'm not entirely sure I approve of your relationship goals. I mean, really, Harold? John? Regardless, it doesn't matter, if this is what you really want. It's time for you two to get yourselves together and figure out what's what. I've included a hotel key for the Excelsior across the street, room 349. Have fun and make sure to stay up late. Please. Maybe if you can spend the night together for once, it'll calm things down a bit in the subway. I certainly hope so._

_Your Cupid, Root._

John wasn't sure whether that was supposed to be a punch to the gut, or something to celebrate. When he looked up, Harold was busy eating his cheese cake drizzled with strawberries. 

"She doesn't know," Harold said. "I think I'm relieved."

"Me too."

"I apologize for her comment in there about you."

"It's not your fault she doesn't like me. The feeling's mutual."

"I know. I also realize you two will never become good friends, so I'm not even attempting to make it happen."

"Thank you for that."

"What now?"

"You don't want to take her up on the hotel?"

Harold stared at his plate, his fork paused midair with a bite of cheesecake on it. His cheeks were now as red as the strawberry sauce. 

"You know I'm not... Oh God, I can't believe she asked us to..."

John tried not to laugh. Root clearly didn't know them as well as she thought she did. "It's okay, Harold. We can go home after dessert, if you'd prefer. We can spend the night in more comfortable surroundings the same as we usually do."

Harold smiled then. "I'd like that."

* * *

On his way to the apartment, John made extra sure to take a roundabout route just in case Root was following him. If they showed up at the subway tomorrow and continued on like nothing had happened, because nothing would be different from how they usually spent their nights together, it would irritate her to no end, and he rather liked that idea. Though he was sure Harold wouldn't like to think of it that way, so he reminded himself to keep his thoughts to himself. 

As he approached the building, he glanced up and saw a pale light in one of their windows and a warmth flooded his chest, knowing Harold was already there waiting for him. 

Unbidden, he remembered seeing Carl and Anthony together at the theater, and wondered how Carl was handling life without Anthony. He knew for himself, any life without Harold would be unbearable, and it wasn't just because of their new found relationship. If he didn't have Harold, he wouldn't have this job, and that was one of the main things keeping him together. If he could have any wish granted, it would be to protect Harold forever. 

When he did get upstairs and inside the warm apartment, he reached for Harold, already making tea on the stove, and pulled him into a tight hug. 

"Thank you," he whispered. 

"Whatever for?" Harold asked, genuinely confused. 

"Everything."

He let Harold go in time to see one of his trademark small smiles, and it warmed him further. 

"Would you like some coffee? I got your mug down, but hadn't started the pot yet."

"I'll get it, sure."

"Do you think that hotel room was decorated for a night of romance?"

Imagining rose petals strewn over white bed linens, John said, "Knowing Root? Probably."

Harold's face turned pink again. "I'm so glad we're not there."

John leaned over and pecked Harold on the cheek. "Me too."

When Harold disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, John took off his jacket and bow tie, shoved the couch out of the middle of the livingroom floor, found the emergency candles and lit them around the room, turning off the overhead lights. He then went through their record collection, pulled a few albums that were mostly Harold's, though at this point that was probably splitting hairs since they'd intermingled their collections awhile ago. 

Harold hadn't insisted on much for the apartment, considering the amount of time they'd be spending in it, and considering where it was located. But Harold had recently splurged on a turntable that could handle multiple albums, and would automatically rotate to the next one when the first one was over. This was not a night he wanted to worry about changing the albums manually. If they'd been given the night to be romantic, John decided he was going to take it for all it was worth and show up to work tomorrow like nothing had happened. 

He set the needle on the first record and hit the play button. Harold came out of the bedroom just as Ben E. King began singing Stand By Me. He'd changed into a less formal look of a pale blue button down shirt tucked into brown trousers. At least he wasn't wearing a vest or tie. 

"John?"

John gave him his biggest smile and held out his hand for Harold. 

"We were told to have a romantic night, so let's do it. Just, on our terms. Not hers."

Harold smirked, reached out his hand, and took John's. John pulled him in and held him close. 

"You know, we never did get to dance at that couple's retreat."

"I'll do my best not to step on your toes."

John laughed into Harold's ear. "I'll forgive you if you do."

They were quiet then, swaying to the music when it switched to Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade. John had to admit, this was better than any night in a fancy hotel. The tracks kept changing and they stayed where they were, slowly turning around the floor. The candle glow reflected in Harold's eyes, making it appear as if they were full of stars. And perhaps they were. The smile never left his face. He looked genuinely happy for the first time in a long while, reminding John of the time he'd taken Harold for a motorcycle ride into the wilds of New York State. 

It was important, he was recognizing, that they take these kinds of breaks to bring themselves back to sanity every now and then. It felt good to see Harold's mood lighten up a bit, and he was always surprised at the weight that seemed to lift off his own shoulders too. 

He brushed Harold's cheek with the back of his forefinger, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, letting his other hand travel underneath Harold's loosened dress shirt, to feel his warm bare skin underneath. Harold clung to him, kissing him back as he pulled John's shirt from his waistband, and slid his hands beneath, skin on skin. It felt wonderful, as they continued around the floor, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. 

"Your tea is probably cold by now," John remembered. 

"Too bad. So's your coffee."

"Too bad." John smiled, brought Harold closer for a hug, and rested his chin on Harold's head. 

Conversation was minimal. It seemed to John that he should be saying all the important things, but there was nothing to say. Not out loud anyway. Instead, he let his body do his talking for him, in the way he held Harold close, gently, mindful of his spine; and the way he kissed the side of his head, his earlobe, even his knuckles. 

They stayed on their feet until Harold began to sag a little in John's arms, clinging a little harder. "I've got to sit down for awhile."

John lead him to the couch and helped him sit. "I'll make you some fresh tea. I'll be right back."  


* * *

It was around midnight when they finally managed to crawl into bed together, rolling into each other's arms, facing each other. They were close, so close. Harold moved the extra inch to press his lips to John's. 

"Thank you," he whispered. 

"For what?"

"Everything." Harold smirked, and John smiled as his own words were repeated back to him. Harold continued, "but right now, especially for tonight." 

John had the urge, again, to be able to protect Harold forever. If only he could. 

"I.T.A.L.Y." John whispered back. 

Harold smiled. "I.T.A.L.Y." 


	29. Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold is kidnapped by Decima Technologies for nefarious purposes, which could spell the end of John Reese, if he's not careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Egret made an appearance in "Wingman" (S04E03). If you've seen that episode, you'll understand why John uses that alias here. There is also a nod to the conversation John and Harold have in the diner at the end of "Judgement" (S01E05).

"You know, Harold, you won't do me an ounce of good so long as your friend keeps trying to rescue you. Your life is not in any danger here. I simply wish to use your knowledge of computers and AI technology, since we lost dear old Mr. Arthur Claypool. I thought maybe you would want to be in the inner circle helping us with Samaritan."

"That's not going to happen, and you know it," Harold said from the wingback chair he'd been given to sit in. Greer had ordered Harold shot once, so this thought that he might still convince him to switch teams was laughable at best.

John Greer sat across from him in a matching blue wingback chair, sipping a brandy. Harold hadn't touched the glass he was offered, nor did he care to. 

"I surely don't understand why not."

"You know why not." 

"How can you not see that Samaritan will be good for the world?"

"How can you not see that it would be devastating to the world?"

Greer sighed. "There's just no reasoning with you, Harold. Why don't you go rest up for awhile. Perhaps you'll be in a better mood after a nap."

But Harold wasn't in a better mood after a nap. He was becoming resigned to his fate of never getting to leave the ornate house he was trapped in and never seeing John again. 

Days passed. He was allowed out of his bedroom on occasion, once because Greer wanted to play a game of chess with him, but he mostly ate, slept, and thought about life in that one room. He missed John terribly. He missed Bear, much as he wasn't sure he wanted to admit it. He also missed Detective Fusco and Ms. Shaw. And yes, even Root.

It wasn't that his room wasn't well appointed, because it was. The walls were half rich green flowered wallpaper and half dark wood paneling. There was a small dinning table in one corner and a large wardrobe in the other with enough drawers to stow the clothing of an army. The king-sized four poster bed matched the wood paneling and had so many covers and blankets he felt like he was drowning every night, pressed down under the surface of the ocean. He slept on the edge of the bed, cold, wondering what he ever did when he slept in Professor Whistler's apartment without John. He didn't remember ever being this cold at night. 

Harold had forced himself to contemplate suicide just to escape while he was left alone in a locked room for so long, but his search of the space had brought up nothing sharp enough to cut skin, only several strategically placed video cameras, that watched him sleep, watched him eat, and watched him shower in the attached ornate bathroom done in Italian marble. So even if he'd attempted a hanging, someone would undoubtedly come to his rescue before any real damage could be done.

Never before had he felt so exposed. Yet he refused to be ashamed of his body. He continued to do his daily routines as if nothing were different. He showered in the morning, and was dressed before breakfast came in. At night, he changed into the proffered pajamas. He hadn't done so at first, but as the days wore on, he realized that his clothes would smell if he didn't allow someone to clean them for him. He did not, however, succumb to wearing other donated clothing, preferring to keep his own brown suit and purple paisley tie. And he never took off the wedding ring he wore on a chain around his neck.

He was sure he'd been placed in a Faraday cage, so that the GPS device in his ring couldn't tell John were he was located. But he was a stupid, sentimental old fool, and anything that would keep John close to him, was a welcome weight against his chest, even if John couldn't be with him in person. 

Greer had taken one look at the wedding ring and shaken his head. "Poor, Ms. Hendricks," he'd remarked.

Harold hadn't bothered to correct him.

* * *

"I couldn't help but notice your hands have been troubling you recently," Greer commented one evening when Harold had been led out of his confinement to share dinner with him. 

A wonderfully juicy rib eye was on the menu, coupled with a salad, spicy green beans, and fresh bread. 

True, Harold had been rubbing his hands together more recently. Especially with how cold he'd been at night. His hands were hurting him more than usual so that buttoning his shirt had become more difficult. Shaw had informed him they probably would always have some degree of pain in them, especially during thunder storms and other weather events. 

"What of it?" Harold asked. 

"I don't recall them bothering you the last time we met."

"They didn't."

"Mind telling me what happened?"

"I do, actually."

"What if I told you I'd found the man responsible."

That got Harold's attention forthwith. 

Greer smiled. "That's right. I've done a little digging while you've been here. You probably didn't even know his name. Sgt. Eric Hess. He was over in Afghanistan with his military dog, who went by the name of Butcher. He lost Butcher after returning home when he couldn't pay back money he owned a specific group of individuals. It was all very fascinating how your friend took them out and took the dog home."

"Yes, and what of it?"

"Sgt. Hess wants his dog back."

Harold kept his mouth shut. He wasn't about to give away any information he had. Of course the man wanted his dog back. But Harold would never give a dog to a man like that, former owner or not. Even so, remembering the large man and his work boots crushing his fingers left Harold shivering. 

"More than that, I think, he would like to get a little revenge on you. He had to get stitches in his leg after the dog attacked him. He thinks you trained the dog to dislike him and he's rather upset about it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Harold asked. 

Another man came into the room then, and Harold realized he was brandishing a syringe. He pushed his chair back, intending to get up and leave, though where he would go, he had no idea. Someone behind him stopped his chair from moving further, and held his right arm in a tight grip as Greer stood up and came around the table to him.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, just a fun little game I wanted to play with you." 

Greer slipped Harold's cufflink out of the button holes on his right sleeve and between him and the man holding Harold down, they wrangled his suit jacket off and got his shirt sleeve rolled up past his elbow. Harold attempted to struggle, but he didn't have the strength and the pain in his spine from twisting into an awkward angle wasn't helping. The man with the syringe came closer and placed a tourniquet around his upper arm to draw out his vein. Within seconds, he'd slipped the needle into Harold's arm, released the rubber tourniquet, and plunged the needle's contents into his vein. 

"What was that?" Harold asked when the needle was pulled free and a bandage was placed over the tiny dot of blood. 

"Oh, nothing too serious," Greer said. "Your bigger concern will be Sgt. Hess. We're letting you go. My men will drop you off in the city. But Hess is out there. I've given him your picture, and told him the general area where you'll be dropped off." 

Greer pulled out a photo and set it on the table in front of Harold's dinner plate before returning to his own dinner on the opposite side of the table. Harold's hands ached at the sight of the man who'd hurt him so terribly. Greer picked up his knife and fork while the other goons stepped away, but all Harold could do was stare at the photo. 

* * *

It wasn't long before the symptoms began to kick in. The first to go was Harold's vision, which went very blurry until all he could make out were shapes and colors at a distance. As he was led from the table, he nearly walked into a chair that blended in with the carpeting. His entire body began to tremble and shake involuntarily and he couldn't quite catch his breath. Something soft and dark was thrown over his head to further block his vision. 

He was placed in a vehicle with a sliding door and the engine came to life. There was a jolt as it began to move. Harold tried to keep track of which direction they were going, when they made left and right turns, but it was futile. He hadn't known from whence they'd come. And he got lost after the fifth turn with a strong headache coming on. His mouth was dry. He needed water. He was starting to sweat. 

Where on earth were they taking him? Why were they doing this to him? Had they found John? Was he okay? 

He whimpered as a sharp pain filled his stomach for a few seconds before dissipating. 

They had been driving for awhile when the van eventually stopped and he was hauled from the back, the dark cloth pulled from his head. Greer was not with them, but enough men with guns hidden on their persons were. One of them slipped something into Harold's pocket as they ushered him to a spot against a building wall. The sun was beginning to set and didn't this just feel all too familiar? 

His hands were truly aching now although the trembling had subsided almost completely. He was pushed to the ground, and ordered to stay put. He did as he was told and watched the vague shapes of the men walking away through a crowd of cheering people. The van had long since disappeared.

What the hell was going on? And where the hell was he?

The sound around him was deafening and mostly indistinct. He thought he saw swirls of color, thought he heard a song... there were multiple people singing. And too many people around him, nearly tripping over him as they walked by, yelling things he couldn't understand.

He remembered someone slipping something into his pocket and felt around until he found it. His cell phone. Which meant... which meant he could call for help. He could call John. Relief flooded him as he held the phone an inch from his face in order to determine which buttons to press. 

"Where have you been? Harold, I've been looking everywhere for you!" John exclaimed upon answering his phone.

"I didn't see where they took me. I'm sorry."

"Are you okay? Are you safe? I can't hear you too well with all the noise around you." 

"I-I don't know." 

"Where are you?" 

"I don't know that either. But he's coming for me. The lights are bright, flashing. So much color. The world is spinning. I feel sick." 

The sharp pain had returned and he took a moment to breathe through it, trying not to whimper over the phone. 

"Who's coming for you?" John asked. 

"Oh God, John. He's coming!" 

"Who's coming?!" When Harold didn't answer, John said, "It sounds like you might be in Times Square. There's a musical debuting on the street today. I'm coming to get you. Stay put." 

"You won't do me an ounce of good so long as your friend keeps trying to rescue you... I thought maybe you would want to be in the inner circle helping us with Samaritan... Sgt. Hess wants his dog back... he would like to get a little revenge on you... just a fun little game I wanted to play with you." 

"No John! Don't come!" Harold nearly choked on his words. "I shouldn't have called you." 

He couldn't get Eric Hess's face out of his head. Again, he was left shivering and terrified on a city street, and Mr. Hess was coming to get him. He would have to stay there; would have to be brave and accept his fate. 

"John, please... stay away." They were some of the hardest words he'd ever said to anyone.

"Harold..." the pain in John's voice was palpable over the phone line. It nearly broke Harold's heart. 

"Stay away. Please," he begged. "It's a trap. I'm sorry. I can't let anything happen to you. Just... let me go."

"Harold... no!"

He hung up, his heart hammering in his chest. 

"You mess with John, Mr. Greer, you mess with me!" Harold yelled into the abyss in front of him. "You will not do this to us! You will not!" 

He shook his head, trying to clear it of the encroaching cobwebs, but only succeeded in exacerbating his headache. He looked up at the people around him, several passers by stepped over him with the crowds swarming the area. He thought he saw mouths opening, but couldn't understand the words. There was a ringing in his ears; sharp; long; never ending. 

His shirt was soaked with sweat. He took his jacket off. Then his tie. He used the jacket as a pillow and lay down. Someone kicked him, but they were gone by the time he looked up. The crowd standing in front of him backed up as one, and he found himself trapped against the wall, with many pairs of feet only inches from his face. One wrong move and they would step on him or kick his glasses off. 

With his head feeling fuzzy, he wasn't sure how to get out of this situation. Everyone had told him to stay put. But John wasn't coming to get him, only Eric Hess was coming. Greer wouldn't bother trying to save him if he wouldn't deliver John on a silver platter. 

Harold forced himself to relax and closed his eyes. Whatever happened, he would take it in order to keep John safe. 

* * *

In the subway, John double checked the GPS location of Harold's wedding ring before grabbing several of his hand guns and his sniper rifle. He then called Detective Fusco, shoved the phone under his ear, and picked up Bear's leash with his free hand. 

"What do you want?" Fusco asked. 

"I need you. It's urgent. I'm going to text you an address. Meet me there ASAP."

John rushed through traffic on his Street Triumph motorcycle and was pleased to see Fusco already there when he arrived.

"What's going on? Have you found Glasses yet?"

"He's somewhere in Times Square. I think."

"Times square? What's he doing there?"

"I don't know, but we need to get him out. He said someone was coming for him and the whole thing is a trap. I can't go in. From this point, I'm going to send Bear in to get him out and I'll cover the operation. You stay here. Drive Harold to safety when you see him. I don't know what they did to him but he didn't sound good when he called."

"Okay. Yeah, sure. I'll drive him somewhere. Anywhere in particular?"

"The safe house is probably best for now."

"Hey, isn't that new musical, Eggs Benedict, debuting today in Times Square?"

"Yeah."

"It's going to be crowded then; a real zoo. Be careful, will you?"

"I'll do my best."

John had to admit he was a little angry at Root for stealing Shaw away just the day before for some super secret mission she couldn't, or wouldn't, explain. It would have been useful to have Shaw with him. But there was nothing he could do, so he would do without. 

John tied a note to Bear's collar, prayed that Harold could read it, and gave him the command to find Harold before letting him go. From the sound of things, Harold was probably not too steady on his feet, or too clear headed. 

John moved in then, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone who looked like they didn't belong.

* * *

The world swam around Harold whenever he opened his eyes so he kept them shut as much as possible. Eric Hess filled his vision, stomping on his hands, and breaking the bones with the sole of his work boots. Harold held his hands together, terrified. 

He tried to get to his feet and fell down. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He needed John. Steadying himself against the wall, he got to his feet as a dark looming shape pushed roughly through the crowd. As it grew closer, it materialized into the shape of a large man with huge muscles wearing jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. Harold wanted to hide his face. Maybe he could pretend to be someone else? He swayed on his feet and leaned against the wall for support. 

He fought hard to keep his wits about him.

"You can't hurt me this time," he tried to yell. He heard muffled sounds in his head, but nothing coherent. 

The man came closer, and his face became recognizable. He smiled and Harold thought he saw the man's lips move, but he didn't hear anything. 

"No. No, you go away. I don't have your dog!" 

Eric Hess laughed at him, the merriment on his face clashing with the ringing silence in Harold's head. He then lunged forward, arms outstretched, reaching for Harold. 

Harold turned, tripped, kept going, pushed people out of the way. Adrenaline kept him surging forward when he would have otherwise collapsed. He couldn't catch his breath. His heartbeat was going a mile a minute, so fast he thought it would burst open and blood would come pouring out, covering his shirt, his pants, the sidewalk, and anyone who happened to be passing by. 

The crowd surged backward, into Harold with a loud roar that somehow made it past the blockages in his ears. He wasn't sure what was happening, he just knew he had to keep going. He had to keep putting one foot in front of the other. One foot. Then the other.

Maybe he should explain that it was all Greer's fault. Probably wouldn't help anything.

He glanced back, and realized he and Sgt. Hess, now reduced to the blurry shape of a bulky man again, were separated by the huge crowd of people. He turned to continue his escape and ran smack into someone who would not be pushed out of his way. 

His knees going weak, he crumpled to the sidewalk.

He was grabbed by the collar of his shirt, and hauled to his feet. He didn't think it was Hess. The pants were black and lumpy. John? He was let go as the person fell, and blood splattered across the front of Harold's shirt. Before the horror of the situation could fully descend on him, he was falling with them, only to land on something furry. 

A wet nose pushed against his cheek, and he looked up, forcing his eyes to focus long enough to recognize Bear. At least, he thought it was Bear. Not an actual Bear, but his dog; John's dog; their dog. The leash felt familiar in his sweaty palms. He forced himself back to his feet, as the dog hauled on the leash, pulling him hard in one direction through the darkness and crowds of people. There was no time to look back for Eric Hess.

* * *

"I'm so sorry, Harold," John whispered to himself as he aimed his sniper riffle at the next moving target. "I'm so, so sorry." Shooting someone in front of Harold like that was the last thing John had wanted to do. That would only frighten him, much like Root had done when she'd kidnapped him. 

The target, dressed in full tactical gear, was keeping an eye on Harold and the surrounding area from his rooftop vantage point. His trigger finger rested on the guard, so John knew he wasn't planning to shoot Harold. If it truly was a trap set for him, then it was likely these guys were still waiting for him to come to Harold's rescue. 

On the street below, Bear had arrived and was taking charge of Harold, practically dragging him down the sidewalk, and for that, John was grateful. Harold was stumbling over his own feet, looking very panicked, but at least trusting Bear to get him somewhere safe. The operative on the roof had done a double take at the sight of the dog. 

John caught sight of another operative on a different roof aiming his own sniper riffle in John's direction. Time to go. While the operative was still debating whether John was a friend or a foe, John checked on Harold to see him still getting tugged along by Bear, then took the operative with a head shot and got the hell out of that building before more agents could find him.  


* * *

"Yo, Bane of my Existence, who's the crazy nut chasing after Glasses?" Fusco asked through John's earpiece.

John had seen the large bruiser, but hadn't been able to determine what he was doing there and why he was so intent on following Harold through the throngs of people.

"I don't know. He's clearly not part of the operative team that have been tracking him. Have you got Harold with you?"

"Yeah, just getting him in the car now."

"Good. Go. I'm not far away. I'll take care of this guy."

John kept watch from where he was, to ensure no more operatives could follow Harold and Fusco. When he was sure he'd maimed those he hadn't killed outright, he darted down to find the large mountain of a man. He hadn't kneecapped him yet, but he didn't know what sort of threat this man was and he felt the need to talk to him first.

When he reached him, he could smell the alcohol from a few feet away and saw the anger seething in his eyes. Whatever was up with him, it was personal. John was going to have to come down hard on this guy. And fast. 

As the man approached the street corner, John jumped him, grabbed him around the throat, and dragged him away to interrogate him.

"Who are you?"

"You don't know who you're messing with!" the man growled.

"Then tell me," John growled back.

"I'm gonna pound you!"

John tightened his arm around the man's neck, making it difficult for him to breathe.

"I'd like to see you try," John threatened. "Now tell me who the hell you are."

"Sgt. Eric Hess. Retired," the man huffed out.

"Retired. Okay. And why are you chasing after a scared middle-aged man who hasn't done anything to you? Do you even know who Mr. Egret is?"

He loosened his grip, letting the man speak again, if just barely. 

"He stole my dog!"

John thought about that and remembered the incident with Harold's hands, and the months of help and therapy he'd had needed just to perform every day tasks. If he had had his own choice, he would have hunted this guy down and slit his throat months ago. But Harold, even after his ordeal, wouldn't let him. And he wasn't about to live up to Kara Stanton's goals for him. That would never happen. 

"You mean, Butcher?"

"How'd you know?!"

"You lost him because you owed a lot of money you didn't have to the wrong guys. They didn't understand the dog they had, so I kindly took him off their hands and gave him to my friend to protect him against idiots like you. No offence."

"You're the one who stole Butcher?! I'm gonna hurt you bad!"

"Right. Anyway, his name's Bear now, and he doesn't belong to you, in case you didn't understand that fact when you used him as payment."

"I want him back! He's my dog. His name's Butcher."

"Well, he's not your dog now. And if you keep this up, I'm going to have to hurt you. And you're not going to like it."

"What are you talking about?"

John unholstered the handgun he'd kept with him, and aimed it at Hess's left knee. "Do you really want to find out?" He cocked the weapon and heard Hess gasp. 

"What are you doing, man?"

"I'm protecting my friend, is what I'm doing. And if you don't stop chasing him, I'm going to have to shoot you in the knee. It's what I'm known for. But what that means for you is months of therapy, if not longer. Then again, that's what Mr. Egret had to go through after you stomped on his hands. I can't let you walk away from that to keep terrorizing him."

Hess struggled to get free, but in his drunken state John easily held him fast. 

"I've got you trapped here. What are you gonna do? Huh?" John shot off a bullet close enough to take some skin off the man's leg. 

John's smile was grim when he screamed in fright. 

"Why don't you just shoot me and be done with it?"

"Because I made a promise to Mr. Egret that I wouldn't kill anyone. Maim them, if I have to, but nothing more than that. So, it's your lucky day. But you only get this once. The next time I see you, all bets are off. Then I shoot to kill. Got it? I don't care why you want to hurt him. I don't care if someone put you up to it. You come after Mr. Egret again, you're gone. And no, you're not getting the dog back. Ever."

John moved the gun to Hess's temple. "You get me?"

The man swallowed. 

"Something tells me you're too drunk to understand what I'm trying to tell you." John moved it back to the man's knee. 

Hess shook his head. 

"You're going to need many hours, if not days, at least, to get rid of the hangover you're going to have. You stink."

John let him go, pushing him away to fall hard on his hands and knees. Hess looked up at him but didn't say anything. When he lifted his hands, John was happy to see he'd skinned his palms and blood was starting to ooze onto the pavement.

"Will you try to harm Mr. Egret ever again? Never mind come near him?"

Hess shook his head in an emphatic "no."

"Do you promise?"

He nodded his head, emphatic again, but he refused to meet John's eyes. 

"I didn't hear you." John pulled the trigger and Hess screamed, clutched his knee, and fell back onto the pavement.

"Again, Hess, I didn't hear you. Do you promise not to ever come near Mr. Egret ever again?"

He nodded. "Yes. Yes. I promise. I promise." Tears were streaming down his face, as he looked up at John in shock and whimpered in pain. 

"Good. That's all I needed."

* * *

John wasn't sure how many operatives Harold had seen shot in front of him that day. He had only one choice when they were getting too close to Harold. One choice. He would never regret making that choice. He only wished Harold hadn't had to witness it so up close and personal. He didn't want to be like Root. Even if their methods were for very different purposes. He still didn't entirely feel good about what he'd done. Only the reason why he'd done it.

"He's been pretty out of it," Fusco reported when they met John in the entryway to the safe house apartment. 

Bear was on guard beside Harold, looking up at his master in concern.

They'd just arrived after taking a long circuitous route to get there, and Harold had yet to sit down, instead he wheeled around and crashed right into John, who caught him and held him upright.

"Pretty sure he's been drugged."

John pulled Harold away from him to look him over: dilated pupils, sweating, yet shivering and he didn't seem to hear what they were saying, nor was he focusing on any one thing. He was definitely drugged. And if John was lucky, that meant he might not remember everything that had happened.

Harold's hair was a mess and his clothing was rumpled. The blood spattered across his dress shirt wasn't helping either.

"John?" Harold was staring intently at him, trying to focus his eyes, his voice extra loud.

"Yes, I'm here."

"Oh, John..."

"Looks like we're going to get you cleaned up and into bed for awhile. Thanks, Fusco. I owe you one."

"Don't mention it."

John brought Harold back in for another hug, once they were alone. He kissed Harold on the forehead. Harold was still trembling though it was hard to tell if it was from illness or fear. 

"Harold? Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Harold shook his head and stared at the floor. "Too much... I don't know," he finally whispered. "Too loud. Blurry. Hot. No cold. But, it's quiet here. Better."

What John knew was that he needed to draw Harold a warm bath, and get him some fresh clothes. He walked Harold to the couch and had him sit down while he got things ready. 

A warm bath later, and Harold was still not really talking or acting like himself. John made him a cup of tea and helped him drink it, holding the mug for him when his hands trembled too much. 

"It's okay," John mumbled into Harold's ear. "I've got you. You're safe now. No one is coming after you."

Harold had slumped against him, snuggling up close on the couch, as if even with all of his current issues, he knew John to be safe and comforting. 

When he suddenly bolted upright and stumbled for the bathroom, clutching his stomach, John was not far behind. He sat on the floor with Harold, running his hand up and down his spine in a soothing manner, grabbing toilet paper and cleaning him up when it was required. Eventually Harold sat back against him with a heavy sigh and a quiet swear word. 

Bear came in and curled up beside them, resting his chin on Harold's knee.

"Are you feeling any better?" John asked. 

"Getting there," was Harold's hoarse reply. "Got any mouth wash?"

"I think there's some in the cabinet. Want me to..?"

"Give me a minute."

They stayed on the bathroom floor for awhile longer until Harold felt like he could get up and be a more normal human being.   
John helped him to his feet, and got him into the bedroom. He found a fresh pair of pajamas and let Harold get changed before putting him to bed, Bear jumping up to sleep at his feet.

"Let me know when you think you might be able to eat something. Or I can make you some more tea."

Harold's face still looked very ashen, with a hint of green. "No. Not for awhile I think."

John grabbed a book from the livingroom and sat beside Harold on his side of the bed. He opened the red hardcover of Isaac Asimov's collection of robot stories, and began to read aloud. Harold's eyelids drifted shut after awhile and his breathing evened out. 

Relieved to have Harold back with him, safe and sound, John closed the book and watched over him as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book John reads from is The Complete Robot by Isaac Asimov.


	30. Sobering Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harold have difficult things on their minds after "If-Then-Else" (S04E11) when they lost Shaw and John was shot protecting Harold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reality, John didn't get medical care until after the following episode while he was en route to Maple, NY, so this is an alternate ending.

Harold turned the page of his book, Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, with one hand, while the other continued to absently caress the back of John's neck. They were sitting on the couch of their sometimes shared apartment, John resting between his legs, his back against Harold's chest, resting and recuperating from his fresh gun shot wound. 

Harold was turning pages, but he wasn't sure any of the text was making it into his head to be understood properly. He kept coming back to the fact that Shaw had been shot. She was either dead now or had been taken captive and he didn't know what to do about it. 

Understandably, Root was devastated and hence, uncontrollable. She also wasn't talking to him since he'd insisted on getting John the medical care he needed over physically searching for Shaw. The fact that he'd written a facial recognition program to search the city for her didn't seem to be enough for Root.

And John... Harold shuddered. John had taken a bullet for him. Thankfully, Harold knew a good surgeon who could dig the bullet out and stitch him up without him needing to be in a hospital. It still frightened him. He could have lost John and all because John was trying to save his life, again. 

His fingers moved to John's hair, lightly massaging his scalp. It somehow helped to know that John was there with him, that he could feel the heat from John's body, could feel his skin under his fingertips. John made an appreciative hum and set down the Guns and Ammo magazine he'd been reading. 

They'd lost Shaw, but they hadn't lost John. Harold didn't like to place more importance on one person over another. Hell, he'd spent an entire afternoon teaching that to The Machine once. But he had to admit, if he'd lost John along with Shaw, or maybe even in place of her, he wasn't sure what he would do. John was his rock these days and the risks he had to take for the job, terrified Harold, even though he recognized those risks as vitally important for the work they were doing. 

He kept running his fingers through John's hair, but he'd stopped reading Kazuo Ishiguro. He stared at the page, the words blurring in front of him, and thanked whatever being was up there, that John, while wounded, was still with him. 

* * *

  
  
John had been sliding forward each time he shifted to get comfortable and over time his head would end up in Harold's lap. It only meant his hand was closer to Bear, sleeping on the floor beside the couch, so he could give him ear scratches. Having a gun shot wound in his chest was certainly no laughing matter, and it had been hard getting comfortable, especially when he'd rather be out searching for Shaw.

They were listening to one of Harold's Big Band albums, but the volume had been kept low so it was background music John was tuning out with ease. He had difficult things on his mind just then. 

If he hadn't turned and stepped in front of Harold in that one moment at the Stock Exchange, Harold would have gotten shot. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if he hadn't gotten in the way, but he recognized that he needed to. If he kept getting hurt like this, eventually there would come a time when he wouldn't survive, leaving no one to watch over Harold. That was a thought that terrified the living daylights out of him.

He was going to have to teach Harold to defend himself one of these days. It was a delicate matter for sure, knowing Harold wouldn't be any more amenable to self-defense lessons now than he had been in the past.

John had put down his copy of Guns and Ammo without even realizing he'd done so. Harold was caressing his scalp and the feeling was one he didn't want to give up any time soon. It was nice just to be for once. He turned onto his stomach, resting his head on Harold's chest, careful of his wound. 

"Everything okay?" Harold asked.

"Hmmmm," John hummed and closed his eyes. "If I don't move too much, it's okay. But every now and then I need to shift, get comfortable again. But this is nice."

"Good." 

Harold continued to stroke his hair. Bear nudged his arm for more ear scratches and he duly complied. It was funny, getting shot. It forced him to relax, to take one day at a time and to enjoy the time he was given. Would they have spent their time like this otherwise? John wasn't so sure. There weren't any numbers to run at the moment, so maybe they would have. He suspected The Machine might also have had a hand in their lack of jobs. There were bigger issues that needed to be dealt with. Plus, they'd just lost an integral member of their team and if he'd had any information to go on, if Harold had allowed him out of his sight, he would have been out rescuing her along with Root.

Maybe he shouldn't be enjoying himself in this moment. Or maybe he could chalk it up to the heavy duty pain meds Harold insisted he take. Maybe they were the real reason he'd slowed down and enjoyed relaxing with Harold for awhile.

They'd lost Shaw. He didn't know if she was dead, if she'd somehow managed to escape and needed to lay low for awhile before she could find them again, or if she'd been captured. Instinct told him she hadn't died, but there had been no other escape from the Stock Exchange, so she hadn't gotten out. Which left one other possibility. John didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about what they were doing do her.

They'd lost so many good people over the years, it was heartbreaking. It was surprising to note that Joss Carter had only died a year ago, even though it seemed like so much more time had passed. 

They'd lost Anthony Marconi too. He wasn't one to subscribe to the thought that they needed to save everyone, including the villains, but he trusted Harold, so they rescued them. He had to admit, Marconi was a good man, even if he was aligned to the wrong side of the law. He was loyal to Elias and he'd even helped them on occasion.

John had almost lost Harold numerous other times. Harold had been the one to give him a second chance at life. He couldn't lose him now. Not now. Not ever.

John stilled his thoughts and listened to Harold's heartbeat, strong and steady in his chest. Harold was still there with him, and in that moment, that was the most important thing.


	31. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting his stomach pumped from the poison he'd willingly swallowed to protect a friend, Root returns Harold to John for care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is post "Skip" (S04E18).

John had to admit he missed the library during those times when there was nothing for him to do. This was one of those times. Harold was out, Root was who the heck knew where doing who the hell knew what, which left John at the subway twiddling his thumbs with Bear. They'd already played a mildly arousing game of fetch in the limited space, John trying not to throw the ball where it might sneak onto the tracks. In the old days, he would have picked up a random book to read, or he would have been busy researching a new number, if Harold wasn't there to do the research end of things for him. 

These days, there didn't seem to be that much research for him to do. They were handling fewer numbers and Harold was doing a lot of computer stuff that John wasn't capable of helping out with. 

He could be needed at any given time and he'd yet to hear from Harold, so leaving wasn't an option. He needed to know Harold's plans before he made his own.

There was a clatter on the stairs, and Harold stumbled down them, followed closely by Root, who had a tight hand on his arm. John was immediately aware of Harold's exhaustion, and leapt to his feet to see how he might be needed.

"Here, your pet can take care of you now," Root said as she shoved Harold in John's direction.

"Ms. Groves-"

"Harold's an idiot." 

John caught Harold by the arms and kept him from tumbling forward face first onto the concrete floor.

"Wait... what?" John wasn't sure what was going on. "Harold's not..."

"Harold can tell you all about getting his stomach pumped this afternoon." 

With a small flourish, Root had turned, gone up the stairs, and was gone.

John looked down at Harold, who harbored a grim expression on his face. 

"Harold?"

Harold struggled to hold himself up and to pull himself from John's grasp. 

"I've got this," he assured John. "I'm not as helpless as she seems to think."

"What happened?" John's voice might have been a little harsher than he'd intended, but Root's words had scared him. 

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about it."

"Harold-"

"Please."

"All right. Do you want to go home?"

Harold shook his head. "There's still so much to do here." 

John caught his arm as he started for his computer desk. "You look exhausted. You don't have to tell me what happened, but I know you've been working hard for days, and I think a break would do you some good. Come home. Maybe we'll watch a movie or something. We can get take out on the way."

Harold's face turned a slight shade of green. "No. No take out. Not for me."

"Well, you're cold, and staying down here isn't going to help you any. Let's get you home. There's enough canned stuff, we can make dinner later if you get hungry."

"Thank you. That does sound... nice."

John snorted at Harold's attempt to soften his harsh words and pulled him into a quick hug. 

* * *

At the apartment, they ended up on the couch together, Harold between John's legs, leaning back against his chest, a blanket pulled up to his chin. He was freezing cold, a side-effect of the poisoning and the subsequent stomach pumping he'd undergone at the hospital. John had put on the tv, but had left the volume low. Harold was ignoring it, instead, enjoying the feel of John's arms wrapped around him, helping to keep him warm. He felt safe in this cocoon of warmth and strength.

He didn't read a book. He didn't talk to John. He couldn't. How could he admit what he'd done? He'd almost died for heaven's sakes. And of his own doing. John would be angry with him and he couldn't face that right then. 

He didn't want to be doing anything more than letting his thoughts run away with his mind. Even as exhausted as he was, he couldn't turn his brain off. He had too many things to think about. Root had effectively shut down his months-long operation in one afternoon. Harold would need to find another way to shut down Samaritan. His first plan could have worked. Root didn't know for sure that it wouldn't have. He didn't think he would ever not be angry at her for that.

"Harold," John's voice sounded a bit scratchy. "I'm getting up. I'm hungry and you need to eat something. I'm going to make you some tomato soup and toast. Do you want tea with that or plain water?"

Harold was about to protest, when his stomach growled. He looked at the clock on the DVD player and realized they'd been cuddled on the couch for several hours. Where the hell had the time gone? It was dark out now and well past a normal dinner time. 

"No complaints from you," John admonished, before he could say anything. "I don't want to hear them. Soup and toast. That's what you're getting." 

"Okay," Harold whispered. Truth be told, he didn't want to leave his warm, safe cocoon, but John was right, he did need to eat something. "I'll have a cup of tea with it. Thank you."

* * *

They ate tomato soup and toast together in the kitchen, John washed the dishes, and while Harold brushed his teeth and put his pajamas on, John took Bear outside for a quick walk around the block. 

When John finally crawled into bed beside him, Harold was still exhausted, but wide awake and unable to sleep. He'd started reading Fail-Safe by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler one of the last times they'd been at the apartment and John brought the book in with him and left it on his night stand. 

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

Harold sighed. He knew he should tell John what had happened. He just didn't want John worrying about him more than he already did. "Ms. Groves was right. I am an idiot, perhaps. But I saved someone's life today. I consider that a good thing. And Ms. Groves... well, to say the least, I'm still mad at her for what she did."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"She ruined a plan of mine that I'd put into place months ago to destroy Samaritan because she didn't think my plan would succeed, and nearly poisoned a woman in the process."

"On purpose?"

"On purpose. All of it. Yes."

John pulled Harold to him, and held him tight. Then a slight laugh bubbled up out of John. "I'm not sure whether to be scared shitless over this or to be extremely proud of you for being brave and saving someone's life nearly at the cost of your own."

"No, John. I wasn't brave. Not by a long shot."

"You were brave. I think maybe my wild ways are rubbing off on you."

"That sounds terrifying," Harold said with a chuckle. 

"Actually, it does. Don't do that again."

They were quiet for awhile, Harold resting his head on John's chest. The light was still on, but Harold didn't have the energy to ask John to turn it off.

Eventually John picked up Harold's book, and began reading out loud from where Harold had left off a week or two ago. It was soothing, being read to, and eventually Harold's mind quieted, and concentrated on the words John was saying, and then he fell asleep. 

* * *

When he woke up early the next morning, Harold was surprised to see that the bedside light was still on, and the book still resting in John's hands, his thumb marking his place. His reading glasses sat, crooked, on his nose, but he was sound asleep. 

How on earth was Harold supposed to leave this to go fight crime underground. This, right here, was perfect. If only he could snuggle back under the covers and fall asleep again.

"John? John, it's time to get up." 


	32. When I'm Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to apologize for the way he attempted to teach Harold to shoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post "Search + Destroy" (S04E19).

_"Pick it up, Finch. It's about time." - John_

_"Is this really why I was summoned first thing in the morning?" - Harold_

_"Beats a cup of coffee. Who knows, you might even enjoy it." - John_

_"While I appreciate the utility of a firearm, Mr. Reese, I don't see the pleasure of firing lead projectiles at inanimate objects." - Harold_

_"This isn't pleasure. It's business. You've had some close calls recently." John picks up an automatic weapon. "Think of it as a machine. You like machines, right Finch?" John fires at a row of bottles. "Maybe a handgun is more your style." - John_

_Harold starts to walk away._

_"I won't be around forever. Just need to know you can protect yourself once I'm gone." - John_

_"When the time comes for me to pick up a firearm, all will truly be lost." - Harold_

_-Search and Destroy_

* * *

John pulled the town car to a stoplight and glanced over at Harold. Again. Harold hadn't been speaking to him for most of the day and he was getting worried about the situation. 

"About this morning..." John trailed off. He couldn't do this. 

"What about it?" Harold's voice was cold and clipped. 

"I could have... should have... handled that better." 

"Maybe not at all would have been good."

Did Harold really not understand his reasoning? Hadn't he explained it that morning? 

"I'm just scared," John blurted out before he could think about it and hold it in. 

Admitting his fears out loud was not something he was comfortable with. Not even with Harold, for whom he liked to project a sense of heroism, a sense that he always knew what he was doing and was competent and capable. Maybe he still saw Harold as his employer and in this job, there was no room for fear. 

His admission got Harold's attention anyway. He looked over at John, as the light turned green and he drove on. When John found an empty parking space he slid into it, but left the engine running. He couldn't have this conversation and drive at the same time. His nerves were on edge and there was no calming himself down.

John forced himself to continue, "This whole thing with Samaritan is getting out of control. There's a greater chance you'll outlive me than the other way around and I don't want to leave you unprotected. Already this year, so much has happened to you that I wish... Harold I... I'm really sorry I screwed up this morning." 

John kept his gaze focused on the car parked in front of them, specifically on the little stick family decal in the rear window. 

Harold placed a gentle hand on his arm and John turned to face him, surprised at the touch. 

Harold's smile was small, but genuine. "You're forgiven, John. I understand more than you think I do."

And John was trembling then, having admitted more than he would have liked, forcing an apology out because it was necessary and because he was truly sorry. He hadn't meant for that morning to go so badly. And to be honest, the idea that Harold could handle weapons and enjoy it, was soul crushing. Harold had always been his moral compass and he couldn't destroy that. What had he been thinking? 

"John? We don't have anywhere else to be, so why don't you drive us home," Harold suggested with a squeeze of his arm. 

John nodded. That was a good idea. He would take the olive branch he was being offered and he would work hard at making everything up to Harold. Bottling up his own fears was a good place to start.


	33. Too Cold for Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is slowly dying from hypothermia and a gunshot wound while Carter discusses his relationship with Harold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set during and post "Terra Incognita" (S04E20) and the promise John mentions was to The Machine in my previous story "Mr. & Mr. Rinch".

"What about Harold?" Carter asked with a grin. "I never saw that coming."

"Neither did I," John said, putting his hands back into his pockets to keep them warm. "Not at first." 

"But he really cares about you." She turned to better face him, likely to see more of his facial expressions while they talked about Harold. 

"We're just lonely... and alone," he tried to explain.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. You'd do anything for him. I know."

"He gave me a second chance at life. Gave me a purpose. A job..." What was he supposed to do? 

"And you would throw all that away?"

"No!" God, this was awkward. Why were they talking about Harold again? "I made a promise to someone... a promise that I wouldn't break his heart. But I'm scared that if something happens to me..." And this was the truth. There was no way Harold would be able to protect himself if anything happened to John.

John's heart twisted in his chest remembering the last time he and Harold had gotten the chance to sleep together. Harold had practically been sleeping on top of him.

"And now something is happening to you." Carter nodded toward John's chest. He pulled his suit jacket away from his shirt to stare at the blood again.

She was right. He supposed he ought to face the fact that he was dying in the middle of nowhere and no one was coming to save him because no one knew where he was. Not Fusco, his work partner, or even Harold. He was alone with Joss Carter's ghost. 

At one point in his life he had accepted that his life was over. But now, the idea that he'd be leaving Harold alone to fend for himself was terrifying. He didn't think he'd ever be ready for that.

* * *

When John woke up, he was surprised at the bright lights overhead and Detective Fusco sitting in a chair beside him. 

"What... happened?" He was startled by his own hoarse voice. 

"Oh, thank Gandalf you're still in the land of the living. You got shot and nearly died of hypothermia, Superman."

"Why are you here?"

"Glasses made me sit with you since you got here because he can't. And my ass is going numb."

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days. Doc says you've got at least a few more to go."

John tried to sit up, but Fusco was quick to push him back down. 

"No. Mr. Vocabulary says you're to stay here until you're well enough for me to take you home, Riley."

John sighed. "Right. I hate hospitals. He knows that. I need to go home."

"No. You don't. In fact, he gave me a book to give you so you have something to read once you're feeling up to it."

Fusco handed him a copy of The Alienist by Caleb Carr. It was a thick paperback that promised a tale of crime and punishment. John handed it back. There was no way he was up to reading anything just then, which meant Harold was probably right. 

He groaned to Fusco's laughter and fell asleep again.

* * *

John was feeling frustrated with the need to get up and move around, to be doing something, even though he knew he couldn't. Harold would... what would Harold do? John lifted his hand to scratch an itch and was surprised to find his wrist handcuffed to the bed rail. What the hell? 

"Einstein made me ensure you didn't try to escape while I was out of the room," Fusco said upon his return. "You're a hard man to keep track of, you know that? Sargent said the same thing." 

"Fusco-"

"Don't even try it. I might hate this, but I am getting paid good money to babysit you."

"What?"

"He also told me to tell you he wants you whole and healthy before you leave here. And to remind you of Italy, even when you think you've screwed up. What the hell does that mean? He refused to explain, said you would know what he meant. What happened in Italy?"

I trust and love you.

"None of your damn business, Fusco."

"Why do I feel like I'm back in middle school, delivering notes between secret boyfriends?"

"That actually happened to you?"

"No, but I imagine this is what it would feel like." 

John started to laugh, until the pain in his chest made him abruptly stop. Whole and healthy? John was a long way away from that, and he missed Harold. He needed to apologize, though he wouldn't do it through Fusco. 

I trust and love you.

John picked up the book Harold had given him and began to relax a little. 

* * *

"I'm not going to be here forever," John had said and then gotten himself shot. The irony was not lost on Harold. 

Alone in the subway station with no one except Bear to keep him company, Harold felt hollow. He'd almost lost John without knowing where, why, and how it had happened. When the CIA had shot him, Harold had known where he was. When he'd had the bomb vest strapped to him, Harold had known where he would find him. He'd been able to rush to his rescue both times. But not this time. He might never have seen John again, if it hadn't been for his constant gut feeling that something was wrong and Fusco's quick thinking in the end. 

He'd been working on some code for hours, but now his brain wasn't able to concentrate. Since Fusco had found John, hours had turned into days. Root had left at some point and he hadn't seen her since. 

When his cell phone had finally rung, the only sound in the silence of the train station, he'd dived for it, grateful to hear Fusco's voice on the other end, "Riley just woke up. Doc says he thinks he'll pull through just fine."

"Thank you, Detective."

Harold hung up the phone, set it down on the table, then sat down. Hard. He didn't understand why the world was blurring in front of him until Bear had come over to sniff and lick his wet face. He was so fucking relieved he couldn't think straight. 

How he'd ended up on the floor with Bear in his lap, he didn't know. He'd been wrung out and exhausted when Bear finally got up and asked to go out. Maybe he felt better. He wasn't sure. Getting up had been a hassle. Everything had been a hassle. After going out, Bear needed to eat. Harold supposed he did too, but he wasn't sure he felt much like eating just then. 

He'd tried to sleep. Hadn't gone home. The bench had been too hard, and his thoughts kept going back to John's words: "I'm not going to be here forever. I'm not going to be here forever. I'm not going to be here forever." Harold wanted John to shut up. He wanted to hold him tight and never let go. He wanted to be with him. 

When he did sleep, he dreamed he'd been the one to find John, but it had been too late. 

He'd gotten up then, gone back to his computer, and continued typing code like a madman because there was nothing else he could do that would take his mind off the situation. 

Now, he found himself rubbing the ache out of his hands. It wasn't just an ache from typing for so long. His initial run in with Eric Hess had made it harder for him to type code for hours at a stretch. 

He reached for the keyboard again, but his fingers were so stiff and sore, he could barely get two lines of code typed. 

"Don't you think it's time you took a break from that?" Harold jumped to his feet at the familiar voice and whirled around, right into John's arms. 

Emotions battered him from every direction, so much so, that he didn't even notice Bear dancing around John's feet, begging for attention. He could only hold John tight, burying his face in John's chest. 

"What are you doing here?" he finally asked, pulling away to get a good look at John. "Why aren't you at home resting?"

John was wearing the fresh suit Harold had sent over with Fusco, and while his eyes were bright and attentive, his skin was a bit paler than usual and he had rings under his eyes. 

"I came straight here from the hospital. I wanted to say I'm sorry for not telling you where I was going. I've not been good at communicating things, lately."

"I'm just glad you're okay."

Lowering himself to Bear's level to give him the attention he craved, John looked around at his surroundings. "Do we have a new number?"

"No. We don't. I've been working on this code for awhile, but that's it."

"I need to do something. I've been cooped up-"

"I know how long, Mr. Reese. But you are not done healing. You need to go home and rest."

"I can just as easily rest on that bench, Harold."

"No, you cannot. It's too cold down here for you so soon after what happened."

"Fine. Can you bring your code with you? I'm not leaving you here alone." 

* * *

Hours later Harold was installed at the kitchen table working on his code while John rested on the couch, Bear sleeping on the floor beside him. The break from typing that he'd taken while driving home had given him another hour of work before the ache started up again full force. He rubbed at his knuckles to relax them for a bit before typing again.

It was the third time he'd paused that John called to him from the livingroom, "Harold, use your microphone, if that's going to bother your hands so much."

"I don't want to bother you, while you're reading."

John huffed. "You're not going to bother me. In fact, I would like some kind of low level noise around here. It's too quiet."

"Put some music on then. Or the tv." Harold went back to typing. This was something important he needed to get done. The sooner the better.

"Harold."

"What?" 

"Go get your hand cream and get over here. You need to take a break."

"John-"

"Get in here. I'm not taking no for an answer. And leave your laptop in there."

With a sigh, Harold got up, went to the bathroom to grab his cream, and joined John on the couch.

"I'm here."

John took both of Harold's hands in his and kissed them. "You do realize I missed you while I was in the hospital, right? Why are you being like this?"

Harold's cheeks flushed. "I-"

"You know what, don't answer that. Let me give you a hand massage. You look exhausted, by the way."

John put a little of the cream onto Harold's hands and began to massage them, pulling on each finger, rubbing at each knuckle, and working each palm until both hands were limp in his.

"I've been up coding for days," Harold finally admitted. "And Bear chewed my headset when I wasn't looking. Are you comfortable like this?"John had wrangled him down on the couch so they were lying side by side, facing each other.

"To quote a friend of ours 'You've got people who could love you, if you let them in.'"  
Harold realized he was being stupid and snuggled into John. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm... I don't know. I was so worried about you, I guess I sunk into work to keep my mind busy and I can't seem to stop."

Harold glanced up at John, enjoying the weight of his arm around him. 

John gently kissed him, his lips warm and soft, and Harold was sure his brain had short circuited. He suddenly couldn't think of anything else. He moved further into John's embrace and vowed never to leave it again. 


	34. Good Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Machine has escaped with The Machine's core code and are taking a break in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is post "YHWH" (S04E22) and goes into "B.S.O.D." (S05E01).

They'd escaped by the skin of their teeth and now they were holed up in a hotel room for the rest of the night, or at least part of it. Harold had patched John up as best he could, though they still needed to find him a fresh shirt that wouldn't stand out with blood stains. He would need to remember that in the morning. 

Root wanted to plan their next move, but Harold was so exhausted, he could barely keep his eyes open. He kept envisioning The Machine's last words to him, _"Father. I am sorry. I failed you."_ His heart was tangled in knots and anxiety had drained him of all energy. Sitting on the bed, leaning back on the pillows beside John, he didn't hear what Root was saying. 

_"Father. I am sorry. I failed you."_

"Harold?" John's soft voice reached out to him. 

He blinked his eyes open. When had he fallen asleep? And on John's shoulder in front of Root no less. 

"Maybe we should all get some sleep. We're going to need to leave early tomorrow morning before first light."

"We don't have time to sleep right now," Root reminded them. 

"It's fine," Harold said, struggling to get up. 

"No," John grasped his arm and held him in place. "We're going to take a couple of hours to get some rest. No more than that, but enough to keep us going for awhile. End of story." John glared at Root until she gave in.

Harold was in no condition to argue with either of them. He agreed with Root, there was no time for a nap. On the other hand, if he didn't get some sleep, he wasn't sure how much further he could go and they would be splitting up soon, which meant he couldn't rely on either of them to keep him awake.

Root had always seen John as beneath her, and Harold had yet to figure out how to put a stop to that kind of thinking. Maybe it wouldn't matter for much longer.

John pointed to the second double bed in the room. "Just two hours is all I ask."

"Fine. But just so you know, I think it would be better if Harry and I shared and you slept over there by yourself. You clearly don't care about Harry or this operation as much as I do."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Harold is fading fast. I'm asking this for him."

Root turned to Harold and took a good look at him before she deflated, conceding to John without a word. She sat down on the other bed.

John adjusted Harold's pillow so that he could lay flat and got himself more comfortable, sitting upright against the other pillows. "I'll keep watch." 

Harold faced John, taking in the scent of him, and felt himself sliding into a deep sleep moments later.

* * *

  
John watched out the motel window, his gun drawn and ready. When he didn't see anyone keeping an eye on their room, he nodded to Root. "It's clear."

She slipped out the door and was gone into the darkness in a matter of seconds. 

"It's just us," Harold commented, anxiety clear on his face and in his voice. 

"We've got this, Harold," John said, "Nothing will stop us."

"How can you be so sure?"

"We got this far, right? Remember I.T.A.L.Y." John moved back into the room to where Harold was standing between the nearest bed and the door, as if he wasn't sure whether to stay or to go. John cupped the back of his head, leaned in, and placed a kiss to his lips. 

"Don't forget to find a fresh shirt so you blend in better," Harold reminded him.

"If there's time, I will. Now go. I'll meet you on the other side."

Harold reached up, kissed him back, whispered "I.T.A.L.Y." and went to the door. John looked out the window again, pronounced everything still clear, and watched Harold limp out of view down the sidewalk. He could only hope this wouldn't be the last time he saw Harold.

He'd been surprised when Root let him take the bullet proof case that held The Machine. Harold had handed it to him when they'd been planning the rest of their escape back to the subway, making it clear he wasn't going to argue about it. 

John picked up the case, opened the front door, and glanced outside. Clear. He darted to the nearest dark shadow and kept going. Even in the black of night, he was conscious of needing to find the darker spaces to hide, mostly from the street cameras, but also from other people who might be out and about. There was no trusting anyone but their inner circle these days. 

The night was dangerous, but he kept his altercations as brief as possible, running a simple mantra in his head to just keep going. He had to get to Harold and he couldn't let anything happen to The Machine. 

* * *

_"Father. I am sorry. I failed you... If you think I have lost my way, maybe I should die... If I do not survive, thank you for creating me."_

Harold had just knocked out the Samaritan operative attempting to kill John. They were supposed to be boarding the ferry, but he was rooted to the gangway, unable to move. In his mind, he heard Nathan Ingram calling out his name followed quickly by Grace Hendricks on that fateful day he'd lost them both. And now, he was losing his greatest creation, his... child... The Machine. 

John took his arm and began walking him toward the ferry. He hadn't lost John yet. Or Root. They could still fight so long as the three of them stayed alive and they didn't lose

The Machine completely. But they were running out of time, and John was right, this was the only way. Harold needed to put his fears aside. He wouldn't let his creation die and he wouldn't lose his friends. 


	35. Learning Dutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw has returned to Team Machine and spends time with Bear while Harold remembers the time John taught him Bear's Dutch commands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is post "Sotto Voice" (S05E09).

Harold watched as Shaw threw the tennis ball for Bear as hard as she could. 

"Halen," she commanded and Bear took off after the ball. 

Shaw had returned, and Harold could not have been happier. Maybe with Bear's help she would get through some of her fears regarding the virtual reality simulations she'd gone through at the hands of Greer and Samaritan. Bear had certainly helped him after his own kidnapping. Well, he'd had help from John too. He certainly couldn't forget that. 

"Do you remember when I brought you out here with Bear that first time?" John asked, watching Shaw beside Harold.

That had been nearly three years ago. Harold remembered. A little too well. 

"I don't know if I ever apologized to you for my attitude back then," Harold said. "But I do apologize."

"Hey, you were returning home from being kidnapped, going through a tough ordeal, and I threw a 70 pound military dog at you. You weren't prepared for that."

Harold linked his arm through John's. "No. I wasn't, was I?"

* * *

Reese picked up both Harold and Bear from the library in the town car and drove them out to a large dog park just outside of the city. He let Bear off his leash and began testing his knowledge of Dutch commands. 

"Why did you bring me here?" Harold asked. "You could have gotten the dog on your own." This was his way of saying 'You don't need me here for this' without actually saying it because he didn't want to be too rude. And yet, it was too early in the morning for something he hadn't wanted to be a part of anyway. 

"I brought you here, Finch, because if we're going to have a dog that only understands Dutch commands, you're going to have to learn them."

Oh. This did not bode well for Harold. Nor did it sound like fun. There was code to be processed and typed and other things to do back at the library. During his free time, he'd taken to straightening the shelves on the first floor, now that he had Reese helping him out, and he almost nearly had the books picked up off the floor. Wasn't that more important so they didn't trip over them? 

But Reese was insistent. Harold would learn Dutch. Harold would keep this dog as added protection. Because apparently he needed it.

Meanwhile, Bear was running in circles around them, excitedly wagging his tail and apparently looking for either some kind of treat, or someone to play with him. Harold wasn't sure which. 

Reese handed him a dog biscuit. "Zitten means sit. Try it out. If you can get him to sit, then you can give him the treat."

Oh dear lord, he was supposed to give the biscuit to the dog? Harold was imagining the slobber that would indeed coat his fingers after the encounter. He couldn't do this, but Reese was looking expectantly at him, and he didn't want to turn him down. Not with that look in his eyes. He saw hope there. Hope for what, he didn't know, but did it really matter? 

"Sitten," Harold tried.

Bear continued to frolic around them, whining for attention. 

"Say it with a 'z' sound," Reese instructed. 

"Zitten?" Harold was strongly questioning all of this, the dog, the language he was having to learn...

"No, say it like you mean it, Finch." Reese was staring into Harold's eyes as he spoke. "You can do this."

Harold repeated the word, correctly this time, and Bear immediately sat down in front of him, keeping his eyes locked on the treat in his hand. Oh. This might not be so difficult after all. Maybe if he could learn to keep the dog in order, it might not disturb his life too much. 

Harold leaned over and extended his hand with the treat. 

"What if he bites my hand off?" he asked. 

Reese was smiling. "He's not going to bite your hand off. He's well behaved. Promise."

But Bear was not well behaved. When the treat was only three inches from Bear's nose, the dog reached for it, his tongue out as far as it would go in an attempt to catch the treat should it fall from Harold's grasp. In one swift movement, the treat had disappeared and Harold's hand was coated in slippery dog slobber. 

Reese was laughing at the expression on his face while handing him a towel. "You'll get used to it, Finch. You did good for your first time. Now let's do it again."

* * *

Harold continued to watch Shaw wrestle with the Belgian Malinois, the beginnings of laughter bubbling from her lips, and rested his head against John's shoulder.

"Much as I didn't agree in the beginning, thanks for bringing Bear into our lives. He's been good for us, in more ways than one." 

And indeed, what were a few rare first editions compared to the friendships Bear had helped to forge as well as the lives he'd helped to save?


	36. Stay Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw asks for a goodbye kiss from Harold. A little POI humor.

Harold read off the information on their latest number from his computer screen while John leaned over his shoulder to read along. He was sure this was just a ploy on John's part to stay as physically close to him as he could before he had to leave, but Harold didn't mind. In fact, he welcomed the closeness. This number was not going to be easy, especially with Samaritan chasing them for all it was worth, and Harold was already worrying for John's safety. 

He leaned back and pecked John on the cheek. "Stay safe out there," he murmured.

With a finger to Harold's chin, John turned him so they were face to face and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips. "I'll do my best," he said before moving to his weapons storage and pulling out several guns. 

Harold felt his face heating up. That was probably the first time either of them had shown any real affection while in the subway station.

"Don't let Root catch you two. She'd have a field day with that." 

Harold turned to see Shaw coming down the stairs. He hadn't meant her, or anyone really, to see that. 

"Does he need help?" she asked, nodding toward John, who was now pulling grenades from the locker to add to his walking gun collection. 

Harold very much did not want John to go alone into this fire fight, especially after the last time when he'd almost lost him. He couldn't lose him again. 

"Yes, please go with him." Harold hoped he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. 

On their way out, Shaw stopped by his desk and asked, "Don't I get a goodbye kiss too?" 

Harold's face burned with embarrassment, but he managed to get out, "You'd better come back safe and sound too."

"No kiss?"

"No," John said with a smile. He hooked an arm through hers and lead her away.

"I was asking Harold, not you, John."

"I know."

Shaw was laughing when they ran up the stairs and disappeared from view.


	37. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Machine descends on Harold and John's private apartment after Harold is shot and needs medical attention.

"Keep pressure on his wound," Shaw instructed from the driver's seat of the van. "John, the apartment is the closest place we have with this rush hour traffic. Is that okay? Is it well stocked with medical supplies?"

"Yes and yes!" John called from the back where he was trying to keep Harold comfortable.

Harold was quiet, staring up into John's eyes, grimacing at the jolts of pain he experienced every time they drove over a pothole. Otherwise, he seemed to be doing okay.

Beside them, Fusco was petting Bear and helping John when he needed it.

"This isn't the way to the safe house!" Root commented from the shot gun seat. "Which way are you taking us?"

"Don't distract me."

"But sweetie, we're going the wrong way!"

"Shut up!"

"No-no fighting," Harold whispered. 

"Ladies," John spoke up. "Harold says no fighting. Root, let Shaw drive. She knows where she's going."

When they arrived, John handed Shaw his key ring before deftly scooping Harold up into his arms and rushing into the building, ignoring the nasty twinge in his right shoulder. 

"I can walk," Harold protested. 

"I've got you," John said. "And this is faster."

Shaw unlocked the doors and held them open while everyone filed in, Fusco bringing up the rear holding Bear's leash. John moved into the livingroom and set Harold on the couch. 

Harold groaned as Shaw crouched beside him and began unbuttoning his vest and shirt to reveal the bloody gun shot wound in his chest. 

John headed to the hall closet by the bedroom to grab several first aid kits, color coded as to what was inside. While he was alone he pulled his suit jacket away from his shirt to see the blood underneath. Adrenaline still spiked his system. So long as Harold didn't find out, he would be fine for a little while longer. 

"Duke Ellington," Fusco commented from the direction of the turntable. "Someone's got good taste."

"That would be Harry," Root said with a chuckle. "So many books. Even here he has to have all his books with him." She sighed. "I've always wondered where the great man lived."

"John!" Harold called out, his voice laced with pain. 

John poked his head around the corner to see Shaw looking intently at Harold's chest. And though he couldn't see Harold's face, he could imagine the expression there. "I'm coming, Harold. Hang in there."

"You'll be fine, Harry," Root was saying from her perch on a kitchen chair she'd dragged into the livingroom. 

"Is there anything you need me to do?" Fusco was asking.

"No. Just stay out of the way for now," Shaw replied.

John returned, asked Fusco to move Harold's books from the coffee table, and then used it to spread out the supplies. 

"Actually, you can be the lookout," Shaw amended to Fusco. "I don't think we were followed, but we can't be too sure."

"I'm on it," Fusco moved himself to the window and did his best to keep himself hidden from view while surveying the street in either direction.

"This is amazing," Shaw commented when she saw all that John had brought. 

John took Harold's hand in his and squeezed it tight while Shaw proceeded to medicate Harold into a sleep stupor. John didn't move from Harold's side and Shaw didn't seem to mind his presence as she occasionally asked for his help. 

From the corner of his eye he watched Root get up and begin wandering around the apartment out of boredom. When she disappeared into the kitchen he relaxed some, and concentrated on Harold's slow breathing.

Shaw used the bright flashlight he held over the wound to hunt down the errant bullet, poking and prodding with a pair of forceps and other tools.

"I didn't think Harry even liked coffee," Root commented to herself from the other room. "But he's almost out. I'll have to start a grocery list for him." 

"Got it." Shaw pulled out the bullet, and John let out a breath of air in relief. 

Once Harold was stitched and bandaged up, John went to the bathroom to wash the blood off his hands and then pulled back the covers on the bed he'd made just the day before.

When he carried a still sleeping Harold in a few minutes later, Root followed him. And while he took Harold's shoes off and carefully put him to bed, Root took her sweet time snooping through the room. She poked her head into the closet and hummed at the formal three piece suits that had gotten cozy with a small arsenal of weapons and a slew of matching black suits.

As he tucked the covers in around Harold, she surveyed the Guns and Ammo magazine on one nightstand and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee on the other.

Bear trotted into the bedroom, sniffed Harold, jumped up onto the bed, and curled up beside him, a good comforter and protector. John had no doubt the dog would alert them if something went wrong while Harold was alone. 

"Wow, you guys certainly move fast," Root commented 

"Excuse me?" What the hell was she going on about?

"The domestic bliss? Your blind date wasn't that long ago," Root clarified.

John returned to the couch in time to hear Shaw snort. Now though, he had other, more important things, on his mind, as his vision began to blur and a deep pain shot through his chest and back. "Shaw, I need-"

"Yes, let's get you taken care of." Shaw directed him to take Harold's place on the couch and began to unbutton and remove his shirt just enough to reveal a large bullet hole. 

John winced as the bloody fabric was pulled away from the seeping wound.

"Wait, you got shot too?" Fusco asked, a bewildered look on his face. Like a good boy, he hadn't moved from his space near the window.

"You're not going to say anything to that?" Root had followed John back to the livingroom. "I don't even get a thank you?"

"Assuming you don't want the knockout potion," Shaw asked John.

"No. I'm good. Thanks."

"You knew," Root accused Shaw. 

"I'm busy here." Shaw cleaned out John's wound and prepared to sew it closed.

"What's got you in such a tizzy?" Fusco asked. 

Root sighed rather dramatically. "Harry and the big lug have been dancing around each other for so long, it's insane and seriously annoying. Though, honestly, I STILL don't see what Harry sees in Lurch, but regardless, if the helper monkey makes him happy, who am I to argue? Anyway, I set them up on a blind date, complete with dinner and a hotel room, to force them to confront their feelings for each other, or at the very least get it out of their systems. They didn't use the hotel room so I assumed it didn't work."

Fusco was quiet for a minute before he said, "Ah, that explains the classic rock albums mixed in with the opera." 

Root gave him a scathing look. "Not helping, Fusco."

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Sit up, John," Shaw directed. She helped him get his suit jacket and his shirt all the way off to reveal the bullet's exit wound. 

"Well, at least it worked. But you guys were good at keeping it a secret. You know you didn't have to. That's why I set you up on that date in the first place. Poor Harry. Did you make him keep it a secret?" 

Harold had been shot and all Root could think about was whether or not they were sleeping together? John closed his eyes. He'd lost the energy to argue with her. 

"John?" He felt Shaw's hand on his good shoulder. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he managed to whisper.

"Hey, Coco Puffs, you and I need something to occupy our time. Let's go for a walk" "I'm not interested in going for a walk, Fusco."

"Now you're just acting like a spoiled child. We're clearly not needed here right now. Let's go." Fusco grabbed Root by the arm and hauled her out of the livingroom. "We'll keep an eye out for creepos that don't belong," he tossed back over his shoulder.

This neighborhood was full of creepos, John thought, but if it kept the two of them busy, so much the better. The silence that descended once the front door was shut behind them, was blissful and at once nearly suffocating as John thought about Harold sleeping in the other room.

"Harold's going to be just fine," Shaw said. "The bullet wasn't that deep and we got it out."

She began the process of stitching him up and he ground his teeth at the jab of the needle. 

"Thank you."

"No problem."

When she was finished, she spent the next few minutes washing her hands and cleaning up the supplies. 

"I'm going to make some coffee, you want some?"

"Sure." John gingerly got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. "Harold will want some tea when he wakes up."

"I'll let you handle that one. I know nothing about tea."

"I didn't either. But I learned." John was surprised to realize he was smiling. 

Shaw frowned. "Don't you get all ooey gooey on me, Reese."

"Who me?"

"You're lucky that bullet didn't hit anything major in either of you. You know that?"

John gave a half laugh that came out sounding like a choke. "It's all I can think about."

"Soon as those two come back, I'm gonna head out, get some more antibiotics for you. It's probably best if we lay low for awhile." 

Shaw handed him a mug of coffee and set hers on the table before checking up on Harold. 

Harold would survive this gun shot wound the same as he'd survived the last one he'd gotten, but John abhorred the idea that Harold was getting used to being shot. Harold wasn't supposed to get hurt. That was his job.

When he looked up from his coffee, he was surprised to find Root on her knees in front of him. He hadn't heard the front door open and shut. He blinked rapidly to ensure he really was seeing Root in front of him, on her knees. How had she gotten in without his notice? 

Fusco quietly walked passed them, spied the coffee, poured himself a cup, and disappeared into the livingroom. 

"I'm sorry, John," Root said, looking up into his face. "I shouldn't have said what I did." She took a deep breath. "It... You jumped in front of a bullet for him today, and it wasn't the first time. I know you care deeply about him as he does you. It was cruel of me to suggest you were hurting Harold. I'm sorry. Can you ever forgive me?" 

He could see it pained her to have to apologize, but she was earnest, and she meant what she was saying. And while it pained John to have to forgive her, he knew it would make Harold happy if he did. 

"Your relationship is none of my business," she went on. "I promise not to stick my nose where it doesn't belong ever again."

"For Harold, I'll forgive you," he said, setting his mug on the table beside him. "But I don't believe that last part."

Root hung her head, preparing for a let down.

"That's not who you are," John continued. 

She looked back up at him, her eyebrows furrowed. 

"And for the record, Harold and I have been together for almost two years now. Harold set this apartment up for us when we had to become new people, so the night of your blind date, we came here after dinner."

"Oh. I-I hadn't realized."

"We were trying not to let anything get in the way of the numbers."

Shaw stepped back into the kitchen then and picked up her coffee mug. "Get your ass up off the floor, Root. Honestly, if you'd actually been paying attention, you would have noticed all the little tells these two have. They were shining like a lighthouse on the coast in the dead of night."

* * *

When the two women eventually left, Fusco was still in the kitchen.

"So you and the Professor, huh?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I saw two and two and somehow came up with three, that's all. You guys gonna be all right?"

"We'll be fine, Fusco."

"You need anything, you call me, you hear?"

"Thanks."

John made his way, slowly, back to the bedroom after locking the door behind Fusco. 

"I feel like utter crap," Harold mumbled, still flat on his back under the covers, his eyes half closed. 

John sat down on the edge of his side of the bed and began to undress, wincing at the aches and pains in his chest.

"Shaw's coming back later with drugs," he said. "I gave her a key."

"You sure that was wise?"

John glanced over his shoulder. "After all this time? After she pulled a bullet out of you this afternoon? I trust her. Besides, everyone else knows about us now. No point in hiding it this late in the game."

"Oh? I thought I heard Root screaming about something earlier."

He opened his mouth to tell Harold about her apology and then closed it. That was between him and Root and she likely wouldn't want Harold to know about it. Instead, he climbed into bed, not having the energy to deal with pajamas at all. 

His knee bumped Harold's under the covers. 

"You undressed since I last saw you." He turned onto his side and ran a hand over Harold's bare stomach, his thumb brushing the edge of the bandage over his stitches.

"Shaw helped me. It was too hot."

"Yeah, you are hot," John said with a wink in an attempt to regain some equilibrium.

"Oh shut up, you." Harold shifted to face John and hissed in pain. 

"You all right?"

"Just promise me, John... I know this isn't easy for you, but promise me you won't step in front of a bullet for me again."

John grinned. Of course Harold had known all along. "You know I can't promise that."

"I wish you would."

John kissed him on the cheek. "Never."


	38. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the calm before the final storm. They know the end is upon them, though they don't know who will survive, if any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is post episodes "The Day the World Went Away" (S05E10), "Synecdoche" (S05E11), & ".exe" (S05E12), and is just before "Return 0" (S05E13) in the time line. This is the last short in the Domestic Intimacy collection.

Harold glanced up from his computer to see John watching him from across the room. They were fast approaching the 11th hour. This was it. There was no going back now that Root and Elias had been killed and Greer had committed suicide, but going forward, he was sure, lead to madness.

If only there had been more time. 

"Harold, come over here."

"There's still so much work to be done." Harold had already turned back to his monitors and was retyping the code he'd been working on. Again. They were still in a race to win the war against Samaritan, and he was determined that The Machine would not lose. Not for anything. She'd thought he'd lost faith in her recently, and he needed to show her that he hadn't.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he craned his neck into the awkward angle necessary to see John's face. "John?"

"You need to get some rest. You're exhausted."

"You know I can't. There's no time left."

"I'm giving you permission."

Harold tried to continue protesting, but John was already hauling him out of his office chair and walking him over to the narrow cot, where they ended up facing each other on the cramped space. Harold gave in, reaching up to brush John's hair off his forehead. His eyes were shining and Harold found he couldn't look away, even if he'd wanted to. 

"What's wrong?"

"Harold," John's voice wavered as he gently ran the tips of his fingers over Harold's spine. 

Harold shivered at the light touch.

"The Machine told me you could have gotten surgery for this."

"Why would she tell you that?" Harold's tone turned icy at the mention of his spinal injury.

"Because she wants what's best for you, the same as I do."

"Well, she doesn't know-"

John placed a finger to his lips. "Please, Harold. You've suffered enough when you didn't have to."

Harold pulled away as much as he could. "Now you're the one who-"

"For me. Will you get the surgery for me?"

"It's a little late for that now, don't you think?" Harold arched one eyebrow at him. 

"Once this is all over there will be plenty of time."

"That assumes we survive."

"I will ensure you survive, even if it's the last thing I manage to do." John's teeth were clenched and his jaw rigid, as if his face had been carved from granite. He wouldn't allow anyone to change his mind on this. 

"John..." Harold reached out to grab hold of his arm. 

The idea that someone would willingly die for him was terrifying, especially someone he cared about so much. Elias had already died trying to protect him, but if John... He held onto John tighter, because he knew John wouldn't hesitate to protect him by putting his own life on the line. He'd already done so more than once. 

John had always been on borrowed time. The Machine had told him that, though he supposed he'd always known.

Harold rested his forehead against John's chest as he was reminded of the gray morning they'd first met. He hadn't let the relief show at seeing John alive and in person that morning, but it had nearly filled him to overflowing. 

If John hadn't been arrested the night before, Harold was sure it was going to be the night he jumped from the bridge. In his months of surveillance, he'd seen John walking along its length on many nights, pausing to look down into the water, likely contemplating the fact that few people, if any at all, would miss him once he was gone. 

Harold shivered and wrapped an arm around him. He could have lost John before he'd ever gotten him and that thought was horrifying. 

"All right," he whispered. "I'll do it. For you."

John lifted Harold's chin so they were eye-to-eye again. He smiled his handsome smile, leaned in, and placed a kiss on Harold's lips. "Thank you. That's all I ask."

Movement out of the corner of his eye had Harold looking over John's shoulder. Bear had gotten up from his bed and wandered over to sniff at the back of John's legs. 

"Hi Bear," Harold greeted him. 

Without consulting either of them, the dog jumped up onto the cot and wriggled and squeezed himself between their legs to lay down with them, John laughing and cuddling with him as he did so. 

The space was even tighter with Bear, but somehow, Harold found he didn't mind. They were like a family, the three of them, and he supposed he would count Shaw too, and maybe even Fusco, in his own way. Though he couldn't forget the members they'd lost: Joss and Root. 

He refused to lose John too and resolved to do whatever it took to ensure he survived Samaritan's wrath. 

John kissed his forehead. "I trust and love you," he whispered. 

When Harold looked up into his face, he found he couldn't see anything, for the tears blurring his vision. This was it, the beginning of the end, and who knew what would happen?

"I trust and love you too, John. Please don't ever forget that."  
  
The End 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See "chapter 39" for a booklist! And thank you for taking the time to read this. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it!


	39. DI Booklist

For those who are interested, here is a booklist of every title John and Harold read throughout this series, mostly because I enjoyed coming up with these books and because I enjoy making booklists! I have also included movie, music, and magazine titles too, just because.

DI #1 "Domestic Intimacy"  
\- _The Crystal Cave_ by Mary Stewart (This also got a mention in "Mr. & Mr. Rinch.)  
\- _Guns and Ammo_ \- magazine

DI #3 "Night Out"  
\- _Casablanca_ with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman - movie  
\- _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ with Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland - movie

DI #4 "Out of Commission"  
\- 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne

DI #9 "Art Museum"  
\- Gian Paolo Lomazzo was an Italian artist turned writer. His self-portrait is pretty cool.

DI #10 "Flea Market"  
\- Pink Floyd - Harold buys John a classic Pink Floyd album on vinyl, but the exact title us unmentioned.

DI #22 "Double Date"  
\- _Sunset Boulevard_ with Gloria Swanson and William Holden - movie

DI #24 "Broken Hands"  
\- _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
\- _The Three Musketeers_ by Alexandre Dumas

DI #28 "Blind Date"  
\- _Stand by Me_ by Ben E. King - song  
\- _Moonlight Serenade_ by Glenn Miller - song

DI#29: "Trap"  
\- _The Complete Robot_ by Isaac Asimov  
\- _Eggs Benedict_ \- a musical I totally made up for this story, which references the episode "Judgement" (S01E05).

DI #30 "Sobering Facts"  
\- _The Remains of the Day_ by Kazuo Ishiguro  
\- _Guns and Ammo_ \- magazine

DI #31 "Comfort"  
\- _Fail-Safe_ by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler 

DI#33:Too Cold For Comfort  
\- _The Alienist_ by Caleb Carr

DI#37: Secrets  
\- _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee  
\- Guns and Ammo - magazine  
\- Duke Ellington (no specific album or song title is mentioned) - music  
\- Opera and Classic Rock as general music genres also got a mention here.


End file.
